Post by Hunter on Apr 28, 2004 0:53:34 GMT -5
Vulture
Ping.
Ping.
Ping.
There’s a screen on a stand in the room. You don’t know what it’s called. You should learn, but you can’t be bothered. It blinks, glows green and makes a “ping” noise every now and then.
Smile. Stop before you laugh. Think about The Meaning of Life, when they bring in the most expensive machine in the hospital – the machine that goes “ping”. Stop it, you can’t laugh now. It would be inappropriate. Inappropriate, and it would upset them.
So many people in the room, faces you recognise and faces you don’t. They whisper amongst themselves, the very model of the grieving friend / relative / neighbour. You imagine you can see their fingers twitching, itching to get their hands on the money.
The money. Everything comes back to the money. Vultures.
But is that not why you are here?
Close your eyes, lean back. Someone shuffles their feet. Someone coughs. Someone whispers, and someone laughs. A short, guilty laugh, stifled by the solemnity of the moment. More fingers twitch, more feet itch to be out buying a new car / new boat / new caravan / new house.
Ignore them.
The gentle hum of equipment. The only noise in the room. He is asleep. The doctor told you he sleeps most of the time now. Open your eyes, and see his cheek twitch. A hand move, a muttered word, too quiet to hear. A dog, dreaming. Dreams of chasing cats and chasing birds.
Think. Not too far from the truth. Chasing cats and birds. You can’t stop this time. You laugh out loud. This draws a frown from the waiting crowd.
Ping.
Turn the laugh into a cough. Don’t choke. The Vultures couldn’t handle two deaths. And besides, you have to get your inheritance.
Deserve it more than the others, you do. More than any of them.
Maybe with some money, you could run far enough, fast enough. Over the hills and far away.
The machine picks up its pace. The Vultures take this as a sign of approaching death, and you can almost see them wringing their hands, bright eyes watching for any sign of weakness. They move in on their prey.
Before they have their chance, though, the doctor enters the room. You jump. You look at him. Tall, blonde, a doctor out of the kind of romance novels your mother would read. A deep voice.
“Will you please leave the room?”
The Vultures are shocked. The doctor looks at them. You look at the doctor, and the Vultures look at you. This is your fault, they hiss. But they retreat. Only attack the dead and dying. Unless they get desperate.
And desperate, they are.
You follow them as they waddle out of the door, but the doctor lays a hand on your arm. Stops you.
Ping.
He’s saying something.
“Stay.”
Not the doctor, him. He is saying something. Eyes, sunken in a yellow skeletal face, watch you intently. Flinch. Curse yourself because you flinch. Paper thin skin creases into what could be a smile or a grimace. Unsure. Force yourself to meet those shark eyes. Dead eyes.
The malice is gone, it would seem. But you’re not fooled that easily.
The doctor watches the exchange, misses the finer nuances of what is taking place. Misses the dare, the challenge.
Accept.
“Go.”
He commands the doctor, this time. Dr Fabio hesitates. He turns his dead eyes on him, and the doctor flinches. You would like to believe that the doctor jumped more than you did.
He leaves. He takes his clipboard with him. He may be a doctor, but he is not stupid. Knows when to leave this patient alone.
Ping.
Turn your gaze back to him, away from the door. Not realised you were watching the door. Always weighing up the escapes, you’ve always done it. Enter a room, look to see where the doors are, where the windows are. Involuntarily, your head turns to the window and for a brief moment you catch a glimpse of the Vultures. They’re flapping their wings wildly outside, trying to get in. Pecking at the window.
Peck.
Peck.
“What do you want?” Was that you that spoke? Your voice is different. Thicker. Deeper. You wait for the answer to a question you’re not sure you asked.
He leans his head against the pillow. He looks like a Vampire, asleep in his coffin. A Demon, waiting to be awakened.
He motions to you to move closer. You do. Foolish child. You move within arm's reach. There is no chair. The Vultures must have taken it with them. Of course they would have, it wasn’t nailed down.
Now really, that is no way to speak of your family.
He pats the bed.
“Sit.”
Ping.
You remain standing, and you move so that the meal tray is between you both. You could repeat the question, but you do not. He heard you, he’ll answer with time.
And unlike the yellow, emaciated eighty three year old skeleton lying on the bed, you have all the time in the world.
“I want nothing from you, but forgiveness.”
Again, you flinch. Again, you curse yourself. His voice rasps, sandpaper on a concrete slab. Barely audible.
“Forgiveness? For what?” Ask. Make him say the words. Force him into acknowledgement. Watch the swear break out on his forehead, watching him be the one to flinch, this time.
And it strikes you that this time you are the adult, and he is the child. Lean down, closer, “For what?”
He stammers, mumbles, you can see the pain in his eyes. The machine beings to ping alarmingly fast.
You glance up, feel triumph flash across your features.
Peck.
Ping.
Peck.
The window. The Vultures are there, and you feel the childish urge to poke your tongue out at them. You’ve won.
You refocus your eyes on the glass expecting to see them there buffeting the window. But instead of seeing the Vultures this time, you see only yourself, with your ruffled feathers and your long, bare neck.
You glance at your prey, and feel revulsion flame through your veins. The dead and the dying. He rasps, long fingers, claws, reach for the buzzer. Pick it up, hold it over his face. Look at it. Count to twenty.
Twenty.
Press the buzzer. Summon the nurse.
Dr. Fabio arrives instead. The other Vultures aren’t far behind, they flock at the end of the bed, minds full of expensive electronics for their nests, modifications for their cars, and flying north for the winter.
He watches, his eyes pleading with you. Close your eyes. Open your eyes. See the old man for what he really is. More frightened than you ever were. Then turn your back and walk away.
The machine lets out one last ping, mercilessly cut off, as the hum of the machines fade.
Ping.
Feathers fly, as the Vultures move in.
Ping.
Ping.
Ping.
There’s a screen on a stand in the room. You don’t know what it’s called. You should learn, but you can’t be bothered. It blinks, glows green and makes a “ping” noise every now and then.
Smile. Stop before you laugh. Think about The Meaning of Life, when they bring in the most expensive machine in the hospital – the machine that goes “ping”. Stop it, you can’t laugh now. It would be inappropriate. Inappropriate, and it would upset them.
So many people in the room, faces you recognise and faces you don’t. They whisper amongst themselves, the very model of the grieving friend / relative / neighbour. You imagine you can see their fingers twitching, itching to get their hands on the money.
The money. Everything comes back to the money. Vultures.
But is that not why you are here?
Close your eyes, lean back. Someone shuffles their feet. Someone coughs. Someone whispers, and someone laughs. A short, guilty laugh, stifled by the solemnity of the moment. More fingers twitch, more feet itch to be out buying a new car / new boat / new caravan / new house.
Ignore them.
The gentle hum of equipment. The only noise in the room. He is asleep. The doctor told you he sleeps most of the time now. Open your eyes, and see his cheek twitch. A hand move, a muttered word, too quiet to hear. A dog, dreaming. Dreams of chasing cats and chasing birds.
Think. Not too far from the truth. Chasing cats and birds. You can’t stop this time. You laugh out loud. This draws a frown from the waiting crowd.
Ping.
Turn the laugh into a cough. Don’t choke. The Vultures couldn’t handle two deaths. And besides, you have to get your inheritance.
Deserve it more than the others, you do. More than any of them.
Maybe with some money, you could run far enough, fast enough. Over the hills and far away.
The machine picks up its pace. The Vultures take this as a sign of approaching death, and you can almost see them wringing their hands, bright eyes watching for any sign of weakness. They move in on their prey.
Before they have their chance, though, the doctor enters the room. You jump. You look at him. Tall, blonde, a doctor out of the kind of romance novels your mother would read. A deep voice.
“Will you please leave the room?”
The Vultures are shocked. The doctor looks at them. You look at the doctor, and the Vultures look at you. This is your fault, they hiss. But they retreat. Only attack the dead and dying. Unless they get desperate.
And desperate, they are.
You follow them as they waddle out of the door, but the doctor lays a hand on your arm. Stops you.
Ping.
He’s saying something.
“Stay.”
Not the doctor, him. He is saying something. Eyes, sunken in a yellow skeletal face, watch you intently. Flinch. Curse yourself because you flinch. Paper thin skin creases into what could be a smile or a grimace. Unsure. Force yourself to meet those shark eyes. Dead eyes.
The malice is gone, it would seem. But you’re not fooled that easily.
The doctor watches the exchange, misses the finer nuances of what is taking place. Misses the dare, the challenge.
Accept.
“Go.”
He commands the doctor, this time. Dr Fabio hesitates. He turns his dead eyes on him, and the doctor flinches. You would like to believe that the doctor jumped more than you did.
He leaves. He takes his clipboard with him. He may be a doctor, but he is not stupid. Knows when to leave this patient alone.
Ping.
Turn your gaze back to him, away from the door. Not realised you were watching the door. Always weighing up the escapes, you’ve always done it. Enter a room, look to see where the doors are, where the windows are. Involuntarily, your head turns to the window and for a brief moment you catch a glimpse of the Vultures. They’re flapping their wings wildly outside, trying to get in. Pecking at the window.
Peck.
Peck.
“What do you want?” Was that you that spoke? Your voice is different. Thicker. Deeper. You wait for the answer to a question you’re not sure you asked.
He leans his head against the pillow. He looks like a Vampire, asleep in his coffin. A Demon, waiting to be awakened.
He motions to you to move closer. You do. Foolish child. You move within arm's reach. There is no chair. The Vultures must have taken it with them. Of course they would have, it wasn’t nailed down.
Now really, that is no way to speak of your family.
He pats the bed.
“Sit.”
Ping.
You remain standing, and you move so that the meal tray is between you both. You could repeat the question, but you do not. He heard you, he’ll answer with time.
And unlike the yellow, emaciated eighty three year old skeleton lying on the bed, you have all the time in the world.
“I want nothing from you, but forgiveness.”
Again, you flinch. Again, you curse yourself. His voice rasps, sandpaper on a concrete slab. Barely audible.
“Forgiveness? For what?” Ask. Make him say the words. Force him into acknowledgement. Watch the swear break out on his forehead, watching him be the one to flinch, this time.
And it strikes you that this time you are the adult, and he is the child. Lean down, closer, “For what?”
He stammers, mumbles, you can see the pain in his eyes. The machine beings to ping alarmingly fast.
You glance up, feel triumph flash across your features.
Peck.
Ping.
Peck.
The window. The Vultures are there, and you feel the childish urge to poke your tongue out at them. You’ve won.
You refocus your eyes on the glass expecting to see them there buffeting the window. But instead of seeing the Vultures this time, you see only yourself, with your ruffled feathers and your long, bare neck.
You glance at your prey, and feel revulsion flame through your veins. The dead and the dying. He rasps, long fingers, claws, reach for the buzzer. Pick it up, hold it over his face. Look at it. Count to twenty.
Twenty.
Press the buzzer. Summon the nurse.
Dr. Fabio arrives instead. The other Vultures aren’t far behind, they flock at the end of the bed, minds full of expensive electronics for their nests, modifications for their cars, and flying north for the winter.
He watches, his eyes pleading with you. Close your eyes. Open your eyes. See the old man for what he really is. More frightened than you ever were. Then turn your back and walk away.
The machine lets out one last ping, mercilessly cut off, as the hum of the machines fade.
Ping.
Feathers fly, as the Vultures move in.
