A teenage girl with a rare medical condition seeks the help of a specialist doctor. The veil between reality and reverie evanesces as she sinks deeper into the clutches of an ethereal abyss.
My novella is complete!! I am doing final editing, but by...
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A pale faced man sits in a wheelchair. His long battle with disease is etched in the creases around his eyes. A tall man in a white lab coat pushes him along into a brightly lit room.
'I feel a lot better now, doctor,' the man in the wheelchair says. 'My wife thinks I've improved...'
'I'm happy for you Marega,' the doctor helps the man out of the wheelchair and onto a tall bed and looks him over. 'In fact, I'm proud of you.'
'Thank you, doctor.'
'Now I'm going to give you something to help you rest,' the doctor pats him on the shoulder, 'so just relax.'
A young nurse in a crisp, white uniform hands the doctor a large syringe. The doctor injects Marega in the arm with the blue liquid. In no time, the patient slips out of consciousness and lies limp on the bed. His breath is faint and shallow. The nurse busies herself putting surgical tools onto a steel trolley. Meanwhile, the doctor briskly scrubs his hands and arms in a sink.
The nurse pushes the trolley to the patient's bedside. She takes Marega's pulse at his wrist. Unsatisfied, she takes it again at his neck with two fingers.
The nurse looks up and announces, 'Patient is deceased.'
'What's the time of death?' The doctor asks still scrubbing his hands and arms.
'Time of death is...' the nurse glances at her wrist watch, 'six thirty-seven p.m.'
'There was nothing more we could have done for him.' The doctor dries his hands on a large green towel.
'Do you ever wonder...' the nurse says turning away from the dead man, 'that we may be doing more harm than good?'
'Never let your heart get in the way of your calling.' The doctor says and touches the dead man's forehead. He takes a deep breath and says, 'Primum non nocere.'
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In the dining room of a cosy family home, Varaidzo has set the table and is just about to serve the evening meal when the landline telephone rings. She glances at Philip: middle aged and out of shape, who is at the dinner table, but he is too engrossed in a newspaper article to notice her. Sitting across from him, is Domina, Varaidzo's sixteen year old daughter, with headphones drumming rave music in her ears. Varaidzo is rather frustrated as she puts the ladle back in the casserole dish. She walks across the carpeted floor to the phone which sits on a wooden cabinet in one corner of the room. She wipes her hands on her apron and picks up the receiver.
