alate
having wings; lifted up in flight
imagine: you're eleven and stick thin. you're dressed in only a hospital gown. it's 4:30 and the sun is starting to set. your blinds are cracked and your your room is bathed in a golden light. there's a dull pain in your back on both sides of your spine. your mom sits in a chair beside you, sleeping. she is wearing an orange sweater. the chair looks uncomfortable. you reach out and touch her hand. a small child walks past your open door. their red jacket is far too big. you drift back to sleep. later, you wake. the hospital blanket is thin but your body is warm. it smells like pine-scented cleaner and bleach. the silver tinsel around your bed is new. your eyes and mouth are dry. you wonder how long it has been since you last opened them. lifting your head hurts. the pain in your back is greater, sharper, but your IV drip keeps some of the pain away. sluggishly, you reach for it. you hate the drugged feeling it gives you. you rip it out of your arm. the red-jacket kid is back, walking the other direction. you drift back to sleep. a while later you find yourself awake again. your mom is in the chair, but awake. she is wearing a blue shirt. the IV is back in your arm. you tug at it but it remains. your hands are too weak. you can see your ribs through the blanket that smells like pines and bleach. the skin on your shoulder blades feels like it could split open. suddenly, it does. warm blood trickles down your cold back and your dry mouth opens and closes. the room goes black. when you wake up again, it can't have been long. your mom in the hallway wears her blue shirt. a doctor is just leaving. your back feels large and warm. it is wrapped in bandages. it's painstaking but your skeletal hands slowly unwrap the cloth. you pause for a breath. the skin on your shoulders feels raw and cold. your breathing rattles for a second. simultaneously your back feels like fire and the skin rips open. you cry out. you're scared. you're only eleven. nobody comes. the white gown is red and pink like tie dye and but your back has somehow stopped bleeding. there's a tightness in your shoulders. your eyes are sunken and your face is thin. you cry but the tears can't make it past your eyelids. the splitting pain returns and you try and curl up but the bed is too small. you see something white out of the corner of your eye and you turn but it turns with you. your thin shoulders shake. you didn't notice before but it's far too bright for 9:30pm. it only gets brighter. you try and shield your eyes. the child in the red jacket walks by. they almost trip on the hem of the coat and it pulls the hood off. their eyes meet yours. suddenly your monitor goes crazy, beeping and flashing. doctor after doctor rushes in. it's too late. your mom reaches for you. you reach for her too. hands just inches away, the monitor stops making noise at all. the child puts their hood up and their head down. nobody notices them. you're gone. your new wings brush both walls of the room you've lived in for two years. the huge white feathers flap once, propelling you upwards and through the ceiling. soaring through the layer of clouds high above feels like waking up. you didn't know Death could be so small.
YOU ARE READING
short stories by snowman
Short Storyit feels so familiar, like someone you loved and whose face you have forgotten. somewhere in your body, somewhere that doesn't exist starts to ache. it aches for the singing of the stars. you just want to go home, don't you? if only you knew where t...
