The cat's tail swished to the beat of the heart monitor. It moved like a pendulum on Prozac. Meanwhile the beat on the monitor moved rigidly, like an iceberg melting. Rather than watch the monitor, the cat's gaze focused on the face before him. He perched himself on the man's belly, so he could feel its rise and fall. Each movement of the man seemed more forced with each tick of the clock.
That ticking continued for hours, but few of the hospital staff came in, and if they did, they didn't notice the cat. One nurse even leaned over the cat to replaced one of the IV bags. That feline creature didn't purr. It didn't meow. The cat only swished his tail, idly, as if it waited for something. His ginger fur contrasted sharply with the blue sheets, but the nurses and CNAs acted as if he belonged to the decor. He didn't take notice of the machine, nor the IVs, nor the breathing machine nor the feeding tube.
More hours past, and the belly ceased to rise and fall. The cat stretched, and stood up, before walking toward the patient's chest. He circled, and lied down again, with his head pillowed against the man's heart. From the distance the cat would seem to sleep, but an up-close view would show his open eyes. His ear listened for the familiar beat, which grew softer and slower with each tick of the clock.
No visitors came to see the old man. One nurse remarked that his friends and family had long since moved on. This man had lived in a nearby nursing home for the past few years, and generally kept to himself. He read the local newspaper every day in the morning. After lunch he would play a game of chess without a word. No one at the nursing home remembered what his voice sounded like, for no one had heard him speak since his first day there. When this man fell ill, the nursing home staff only knew because his chess opponent had reported him missing.
The doctor knew his time would be soon, but he could make it sooner if the man were able to ask for it. No one in the nursing home knew if he had a living will. While the man had an address book, it only had one entry, with a first name alone. It read: Mack. One nurse, while going through his effects, found a smudged paw print below the name.
Then the time came for the old man. With a feeble hand he caressed the cat, and the cat purred for the first time that lonely afternoon. His hand scratched Mack behind the ears, and he smiled when Mack purred louder.
"It's time for me to go, isn't it Macky?"
The cat continued to purr, watching the pulse in the man's throat.
"I suppose it is. Take me home, Macky. Please." His voice died away, and the hand sank to his side. Beat by beat his pulse sank into his throat until Mack couldn't see it anymore. The monitor flat-lined, and the man's skin fell still. Waxy coating covered the skin as it lost its warm color.
Mack sniffed, shaking his head to rid his nostrils of the odor. He walked up the body's chest, and grabbed a chain from the neck with his teeth. The chain snapped right off, a marble-sized orb dangling on the end. With a drop and a leap, Mack landed on the window sill without looking back. A second later a doctor came in, and found a room empty save for all the instruments and a body.
No comments:
Post a Comment