Quick “Promptie” #4

Would you feel safe if you knew that you would be dead by Tuesday with 1.5% certainty?

What would this information do to you? How would you act, what precautions would you end up taking? Focus on atmosphere and a specific emotion of your choice, be it happiness, sadness, panic or just a vague sense of frustration.

My little rabbit will be going through surgery on Monday afternoon. I hope and pray that she’ll wake up.

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One Response to Quick “Promptie” #4

  1. ardentbowel says:

    I’m Mahl. Every day I eat the same thing. Everyday I see the same people. It’s called a routine. Something the psychologist mentioned. “Helpful” is the word I recall being used. Though, I’m not so sure now. Especially now, as I sit here in my grimy sweat pants. But don’t worry, because it doesn’t bother me much anymore. I mean the smell; the feel; the sinking, dirty, piss and sweat covered threads; the peppery, drooping fibers of filth that surround my placid waist. I don’t really give a single damn, because it’s all about the routine. I don’t fuck with the routine. Doctor’s orders. So anyway, it’s 8:04 AM on the dot. I’m lifting the same oversized chrome spoon to my feeble lips. Routine. I sip the vapid muddle of breakfast three times before I lick the soggy oats off the spoon. The first time I did, it made me gag. Still does every once in a while. I get something hard, some exotic, rubbery piece of debris. Makes the pills look like grains of rice.
    Damn. So now you know about the pills. I bet it’s no surprise though, that I take pills. Probably a relief, I know it was for my mother. She’s not here now though; usually isn’t. She’s beautiful by the way. Light and wind-like, lovely and complete, and mine. But not for long. Because for the past week I’ve been preparing. Preparing for surgery. Some weird experimental crap that I figured I’d give a whirl. Hell, I’m getting a few bucks out of it, figured I could use a few more greens anyways. Thing is, I can only eat these pills and this pulpous, insipid, dog-food stuff. One week of prep, then surgery. 1.5 percent chance of death too. Did I forget to mention that? Well there it is. I know it’s not much. Mom said that means I have a ninety-something chance to live. Wish it were less.
    I think about the 1.5 percent. Like a thick smog in the room it restricts my breathing, restricts my thought. The same unlucky number running through my head every day at the same damn time. 8:22 AM. Even this is routine. The dismal kitchen I sit in drains of color. Grey, silver, black. A blurry, bubbling, popping, puss spews from my nose and mouth. Don’t worry its just the pills. 1.5 percent they say. Maybe these’ll make it more. Poor mother. It’s surgery day. That’s where she is, she’s waiting for me. So finally I leave this dense, suffocating house, and I drive in my dense, suffocating car. Only for mother. I run three red lights. Routine. 1.5 percent. Cant believe I made it to the hospital. Damn. 1.5 percent.

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