Tell me lies

December 24, 2010
By Deus.Ex.Machina SILVER, Los Angeles, California
Deus.Ex.Machina SILVER, Los Angeles, California
9 articles 0 photos 0 comments

Favorite Quote:
"But she turned around and I love her for that because it made her so human"--Kurt Vonnegut "Slaughter House Five"

A young woman shivers in her sleep and worn, tired amber eyes drearily take in their surroundings; faded and slightly blue lips part to release a sigh. The pearlescent moonlight washes over the small room, bringing a sickly yellow hue unto the dirty, mint walls. The light green curtains billow in the deathly cold breeze, sending chills down her weary spine.

No, there are no good sentiments attached to this room, or the next or the entire facility for that matter. There is only sadness and grief--broken promises, crushed dreams and bitterness attached to these walls. She can’t help but find this all a tad ironic-- to be born and eventually die in the same place. This is poetic justice in it’s finest.

The halls are silent and dark, broken only by the constant EMC’s beeping, machines whirling and labored breaths. With a bitter smile, the young woman can’t help but think that this place is truly what brings death; she will die here.

She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath, almost crying out in pain as her lungs burn. She twinges at the stench of blood, stinging and foul. Tainted blood courses though arteries and veins, bringing her a twisted sort of pained-pleasure: there is so much pain, but a warmth that is flowing through her limbs that empowers her, makes her feel alive once more.

A shadow stirs and detaches itself from the darkness: it is her mother. There she is, impassive look to her slightly aged features. The foul odor that lingers in the room mixes and mingles with the sweet perfume of irises and gladiolas. Her mother lays back on the chair and the cushion creaks, groaning at the added weight. The young woman feels weaker now, and looks only to the thin sheet covering her. Her hands slowly roam over the frail, loosely knit fabric, sensing every stitch and fiber: this is her only means of escape.

The woman wants to speak, utter a single word, but she is too fragile right now. Instead, she stares at her hands, at the protruding bones of her wrist and her knobby knuckles. Only now does she truly feel as if she is dying; only under this scrutinizing and penetrating gaze does she realize that her eyes are failing her, her bones are more prominent and her skin is ghastly pale.

(Drip. Drip)

The IV drips a continuous flow of saline and then there comes a nauseating wave of the stench of anesthetics and various fluids. The woman closes her eyes, releases her breath and lets go of the blankets that where clenched in her vice-like grip. She lays back once more and closes her eyes to the world, separates herself from the biting cold, the vile taste of acids, rancid medicine and the unmistakable tang of blood.

“Mother,” she whispers, and marvels at the gruff edge to the single word,“ do you love me? Are you proud?”

There is a sigh, and then her mother speaks.

“Do you want the truth or a lie?”

Ba-dump. Ba-dump.


“Tell me the lie.”


There’s a moment between the two where all time ceased to be a variable; time had cautiously backed away from the room like a child that knows a fight is about to erupt and wishes not to be witness to the conflict. There’s only choked out breaths and silence.

“I love you and am so, so proud.”


The silence is only broken by the elongated ring of the EMC machine. The moonlight seems to fade upon the grimly smiling, faded lips of the young woman, and the continuous stream of the green light of the EMC shines and lives on in the single tear that rolls down the cold cheek.

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This article has 1 comment.

madm0e BRONZE said...
on Jan. 2 2011 at 3:11 pm
madm0e BRONZE, Tucson, Arizona
4 articles 0 photos 28 comments

Favorite Quote:
People say I have no heart, that is not true, I have the heart of a small child. It's in a jar on my desk. -Stephen King

wow nice descriptions.

Parkland Book