Illness

Air conditioning. A cricket chirps for a mate in the distance. Cotton blankets and polyester sheets rustle in the dark. A sigh emanates from them.

An insomniatic figure rises as a slim shadow from the twin bed. She’s thin as death himself and pale as the horse he rides.

Ebony coats her walls with darkness.

The darkness is unfriendly.

Luna isn’t out tonight, clothed in her silver dress.

She hobbles over to the wall, leaning her frail arm against it for support.
She shouldn’t be out of bed.

Flicking the switch, lights blaze to life and she shields her sunken eyes from them in envy.

If only it were that easy to live.

The orange and white bottles of pills taunt and jeer at her from the small bathroom countertop.

Her legs begin to wobble. She’s already stood up for too long.

Stumbling, she barely makes it over to her bed before collapsing onto it. She heaves a sigh, panting lightly and beginning to feel her head swim like it was lost in the ocean.

Drowning.

The doctor always told her to act positive, to think optimistically. He would always straighten his glasses and smile reassuringly at her.
And she would always scowl and turn away from him.

How wrong he was. “Think optimistic,” she would mock once he had finally stepped out of her room. “Fat lot of good that does.”

She had tried. She’d thought optimistically, acted positive. She’d smiled.

But not anymore.

Not now that there was a price on her head, a price in time.

Steadily she got cheaper every day.

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I'm not sure if "insomiatic" is technically a word, but oh well. I like it.

Ciao!
~Vicki