This is a short story I wrote in response to a prompt on a group on my favourite website: deviantart.com.
This story is about obsession, mad love, jealously, and sickness. The main character, David Simpson, is a cancer patient, in love with a nurse called Lucy. Read to find out what happens to them ;)
He loves his Lucy, his beautiful Lucy. She talks like the chiming of a bell. She wears a ring on her finger but in his head she's already his.
Hospital walls are much too white, he tells her. Why don't you paint them red? Red is warm and bright and beautiful, just like you, my dear.
She smiles and turns her head. It's time for sleep, Mr. Simpson. It's getting late.
He frowns a little and says call me David, my dear; you make me sound so old.
Are you married, Lucy? He says. She touches her ring and twists it from side to side. Yes I am, Mr. Simpson.
David, please. What's his name? Is he good to you? It's the middle of the day but suddenly the room looks dark to Lucy.
His eyes are concerned, but she feels cold. She murmurs a yes and leaves him in his bed. Lucy he calls. Come back. Please.
It's time for your medication, Mr. Simpson.
Not again. No, I won't have it; I don't want it, not again. Not again, never again…
Mr. Simpson's hands flutter uselessly in the air as Lucy pushes the needle, sending that cold feeling rushing through his withered veins.
I think I'm getting better, Lucy. I feel so young, so healthy. How do I look?
His hair is almost all gone and his skin is red and sore but she says he looks wonderful.
Good enough to get a pretty girl to go out with me?
How about it, then? I know a fantastic place downtown. See if you can get the night off and we'll go and have some fun. What do you say?
I can't do that, Mr. Simpson, I-
It's David, godammit! He shouts, and swings his legs over to the side. He pulls the covers to the side, and his gown slips up to show a sickly length of thigh.
I'm better now, Lucy, I promise. You can leave your husband and we can go out to dinner. That would be nice, wouldn't it?
Lucy calls out for help.
The doctor looks like a horse, David thinks. How does he concentrate on his work when he has those huge teeth in his way?
You look like a godamm horse, Doctor.
My head hurts.
Mr. Simpson, your scans show that there is no way we can get to the tumour without removing ridiculous amounts of brain tissue. I'm afraid there's nothing more we can do.
My neck hurts, too.
We have given you a minimum of ten weeks to live, Mr. Simpson.
Mr. Simpson discovers that glass offers little resistance when faced with hospital machinery. Why didn't he just open the door? It would have made a lot less noise. Glass shatters on the floor, voices rise as he escapes, running like the wind, swift as a frightened rat. His head hurts.
Run down this passage, quickly, quickly. Hide in this room. It's empty. No, there's a man asleep in the bed by the window. His hair is red and there is a bandage on his eye. His chest is rising up and down and up and the floor is kind of cold why didn't he grab shoes? And it's white, which is a cold colour anyway.
There's no noise outside, he thinks it's safe.
Outside the air is chilly and he's glad he stole his new coat from the man in the eye bandage. There are stars in the sky and there are lights in the hospital windows and he hails a taxi which is yellow and has a scratch on the bumper. The man says where to, Sir?