Chapter Two

This chapter is of another day in the hospital, however this time Michael gives you a more in depth look at the love of his life and his unspeakable past.

     A sharp wrap on the door of Michael’s room awoke him the next morning. The knob turns slightly and beforehis eyes open Dr. Becker steps past the threshold. His white coat shines in the florescent lighting and casts not only an unnatural whiteness but also an eerie glow of ostentation. The surrounding arrogance must have soaked into his bronzed skin because his expression gave a slight hint of boastful self-importance. It’s these kinds of jerks that Michael can’t stand and just being in the same room as Dr. Becker drew more hate into his already venomous thoughts. However, his thoughts were rudely interrupted by the doctor’s deep murmur.

            “Michael? Father Bryan is here to see you,” he utters in a single breath of certainty. At first it doesn’t seem as if there is anybody accompanying the doctor, but soon Michael catches sight of a bald and shining head just over Dr. Becker’s right shoulder. The head pushes its way past the doctor and out steps a short squat man, completely oblivious to the proud air that has instilled. In fact, this man seems oblivious to the majority of his surroundings. This, Michael assumes, is father Bryan. The priest steps closer to Michael’s bed, shoves his glasses farther up the bridge of his nose, and directs a fatherly greeting in his direction.

            “Hello father,” Michael replies, still groggy from the overdose of morphine and radiated dreamland. He already feels his nighttime fix begin slipping away with each second of consciousness and wishes father Bryan to hurry so Michael can glide back into a preferred, yet non-existing reality. Without much hesitation father Bryan extracts a thick black bible from the folds of his robe. The spine of its leather bound cover runs with cracks from overuse. The corners are faded and much of the golden paint from the embossed cross has chipped away, leaving it dull and uninspiring. He flips rapidly through its thin pages, destination clearly in mind, and within seconds finds his desired page. His eyebrows furrow into a thick caterpillar above his atramentous doe eyes as he begins reading a passage, which seems already memorized.

            “…That if you confess with your mouth, “Jesus is Lord,” and believe in your heart that God raised him from the dead, you will be saved. For it is with your heart that you believe and are justified, and it is with your mouth that you confess and are saved.” Father Bryan closes his eyes, obviously immersed in inspiration, and takes in a deep vitalizing breath, as if the lord; himself, had reached down and drew the very air he holds dearest.

“So you see my son, if you pray and ask the lord almighty for forgiveness you will be welcomed into his holy kingdom.” He pauses, waiting for Michael’s answer; an answer that he is certain shouldn’t need any thought in the first place.  Contemplation and silence mixes in the air above their heads, creating a small pool of tension in the bright room. Everything is too bright for Michael and all he wants is to drift back into a dreamless sleep; a sleep that can erase his horrible past and recreate Emily in his loving embrace. However, he has important company which can’t go untended. Although, at the moment, he can’t escape into a deep sleep he can at least dismiss the priest in a polite manner. While the room slowly fills with uneasiness, he envisages how to address father Bryan, which given his recent mood would be a tad difficult.

            “Look father, I appreciate you coming in and spending your personal time to comfort me, but nothing can save my soul.”

            “But if you pray…”

He doesn’t want to discuss the subject and chose to interrupt the priest with a protest. Unwise to most, but he deems this as a miniscule sin being as his ride to eternal damnation is equipped without brakes.

            “I have! You don’t get it! Nobody does. I did horrible things. We…did horrible things. Emily…” his voice reduces in volume at the mere mention of her name. Uttering her name with any tint of anger is a sin that even in these conditions he will never commit.

“I went through it all for her…all the tears, all the blood, all the death. She should still be here. I should have died with her, but it doesn’t make sense that I didn’t. She’s gone and I’ve ended up here…with cancer.” He pauses, deep in thought, but soon the surrounding silence breaks with an eruption of Michael’s rich laughter.

“Are you kidding me? Cancer is how I die? So unlikely, but look at me now!” He pauses again. This time he considers his next words, whether he wants to speak them or not. He decides to go through with it; he only has a couple days of life anyway.

“Sometimes, in the middle of the night, she's here.  I see her lying next to me, saying words I thought I could never speak.  I can't tell if I'm awake and unafraid, asleep, or dead. Either way, I know I'll be joining her soon. I’ll be able to see her every day, hold her in my arms, and feel her hair caress my cheek as I kiss her supple lips. You know, I never got to say goodbye, but this time I'll let her know just how much she means to me.”

He stops to consider his poetic choice of words; the confession he bottled up for ages. It feels good to get it off his chest and before turning to face the priest, he reaches for the oxygen mask beside his bed. Placing it over his nose and mouth, he inhales a deep breath of pure oxygen. It snakes up his nostrils and lackadaisically rolls into his brain, erasing all the stress and guilt usually clouding the internal workings of his mind. He blinks and turns his head towards the priest; his gaze simply meeting innocence washed walls and an empty chair.

“Oh…” he whispers, “so much for confessions when nobody is here to witness them.” The priest’s departure must have been due to Michael’s conniption. As rude as he had been, he still doesn’t care. There isn’t much left to care for these limited days. He lost everything and now, lying alone in his room; the room that he would eventually die in, he has only enough strength to spend time revisiting a past that he would sell his soul to forget. It flickers across his closed eyelids like an old picture show. He can’t avert his gaze as the horrid slideshow flashes from moment to moment. He can only watch in horror and regret, praying that it will soon be over. Although each picture shown in a choatic fashion, they all connect to one stem—Emily. Hot stinging tears form and tease his eyelashes with the possibility of release. However, he doesn’t allow them to push their way past his lids before drifting back to an unmindful sleep.

           

Author's Note

Again...grammer problems. I want this to be a perfect as I can get it so any and all input is perfect and will be put to great use. Thank you