Quicklinks:
|
Great Writing - Home > Short S. > It's only words (amended slightly)
| READING ROOM | ||||
|---|---|---|---|---|
|
| COMMUNITY | |||
|---|---|---|---|
|
| ABOUT GREAT WRITING | ||
|---|---|---|
|
| WORK AWAITING REVIEW |
|---|
|
| GW IS... |
|---|
|
Great Writing creative writing community is designed to prompt ideas
and provide inspiration and motivation within aspiring and amateur
authors. Whatever your topic; from love poetry to Doctor Who or Harry
Potter fan fiction, Great Writing's online writing group is where you
can make new friends and improve your creative writing. |
| WHO'S ONLINE |
|---|
| We have 2005 guests online and 7 members online |
Shorts
| print friendly version | |
| It's only words (amended slightly) | |
| By Snodlander | ||||||||||||||||||||||
| 21 May 2007 | ||||||||||||||||||||||
|
I have no idea where this came from. Thanks for the feedback. I wake with a start. I had dozed off again. What else was there to do after lunch, mind full and stomach bored to tears? And what tears. Food cut up in front of me like I was an infant, by a nurse that joined up to save lives and marry a dashing doctor. Cutting up food for a drooling imbecile, old before his time. She’s there, as always. Sitting in the visitor’s chair, head barely level with mine. My darling. My angel. My wife of nearly thirty years. She smiles as I open my... peepers, but it’s only with her mouth. She is in pain, seeing me like this. Better when I’m dozing, muscles lax, no clue as to what is wrong with me. “Hello…” Shit! What’s her name? “…Darling.” That’s the worst betrayal, of course. I know I think slower than Before. And parts of my mind just can’t keep up, even at cripple speed. I forget. Forget words. But then the rest of the mind tries to cover up. It fills in with synonyms. Take a chair/seat/bench/stool. That’s why language is so… thingy. Lots of words for the same thing, so we can cover if we forget one. Sometimes it puts the wrong word in. I asked for a kettle yesterday. Didn’t mean it. Still can’t think of the word I meant. Square thing, with… you know… they turn. Anyway, it wasn’t a kettle. But people’s names. There’s no synonym for your name. And when it’s the name of the most person important in the universe to you, the one name you shouldn’t have to think about... Bastard traitor. She’s said something, standing up. I smile with half a mouth. It wasn’t anything requiring an answer, I don’t think. Just a greeting. Nope, missed it. Never mind. She places a plastic case on the bed. Not a case. You know what I mean. “I’ve got you a packet of fig rolls. Keep you regular.” She whispers the last, as though the nurses haven’t had to empty my bedpan. Why did it have to be my language centre that screwed up? Why couldn’t it be the bit that felt embarrassment, or pride? She places them on the bedside locker. “How’s your side today?” It’s still… dead. I raise my left arm. It’s like a monster arm, heavy, too big. I wave my dead fingers like… the dead, fat guy, hat, funny. She smiles, as though I’m a child that’s just painted a fat pink family of blobs. “Getting there,” I lie. They tell me I’m improving. They tell me I’ll get full use. I still can’t wipe my arse with it, though. Too scared to pick my nose with it in case I lose an eye. She smiles her winter smile again. She doesn’t believe me, but we both pretend, because it’s less painful than being honest. “Still a bit numb?” she asks. I nod. Yes, that’s the word. Not ‘dead’, ‘numb’. Dying, maybe, but not dead yet. Just numb. Numb. How could I forget such a simple word? Numb. It sounds like a made-up word. Numb. Numb? Is that a word? Did I forget what she said and just make up a word? Numb. “How are the kids, Grace?” Yes! Grace! That’s her name. “Grace is still in Bath.” No! Grace! That’s my daughter’s name. Stupid, stupid, stupid! “I told her to go to lectures and we’ll see what you’re like at the weekend. Jon misses you. Maybe I’ll bring him in tomorrow, but you know how sensitive he is.” Tiptoe round the cripple. Bring the family. May be frightening to small children. Roll up, roll up. “You look a bit down this afternoon.” She touches my face, but it’s the left side, so I can only half feel it. Half a face. Half a man. Half a sixpence. Worthless. A drain on the NHS, my family, on this nameless, pitying woman in front of me. “Is everything OK? Do you want me to get you something?” Yes. I want you to get me a mind that works. Oh, and a body that’s not dead down one side. Not dead: thingy. Shit. Had it a moment ago. I want you to get your pitying, winter face out of here. I want to admit to you that I have no bastard clue what your name is. I can feel the anger welling up. It’s like an orgasm, driving all other feeling and thoughts out. I want to scream. I want to shock that pity off your face. I want to rock you off your eggshell tiptoes. I want shout obscenities into your face so that you’ll forget I’m a cripple and show some sort of emotion other than that tea-with-the-vicar concern. “F – f – f – f…” Damn! I can’t remember the word. I want to swear and cuss and scream the word, but I can’t remember what it is. What sort of man am I if I can’t remember how to swear? I see the pain on her face. She’s leaning forward, trying to will the word out of me, but it just won’t come. “F – f – f – f…” I can see her lips framing the letter ‘F’, trying it out as though she can divine the word. “Fig roll?” she asks, reaching for the packet. "Fig roll!" I shout at her, but it's not the same.
Only registered users can rate and write comments. Powered by AkoComment 2.0! |
||||||||||||||||||||||
 Previous item
|
Next item
|
|---|