I'm Dead Now

Part One

I’m dead now, but the meeting’s still on for tomorrow morning.

The news will come on at two. The infomercials start at four. At three is vitals and the real entertainment:

How much blood will they draw tonight?

The nurse tells me again to turn off the television and get some rest.

At least this one’s gentle. She enters quietly, drumming her fingers and addressing me with a whisper. My arm is propped up delicately.

“Are you ready? You’re going to feel a little poke.”

It’s part of our routine. She knows about the blood pressure machine, the cuff inflating on the half-hour, squeezing mercilessly, my arm the only part of me that can fall asleep. She’ll fill the tray of vials with what little remaining blood I have. “Try to rest,” she scolds gently, when we both know sleep is but a dream.

Last week’s model liked to burst through the door, hit the lights, and get to work. “Wake up! It’s that time again!” Fortunately, the cuff warned me when she was due. Maybe her way was better. No pretense of comfort, just another job to do.

I’m still dead now, and the meeting’s still on for seven. Nothing’s going to bring me back in the next four hours. The men behind the walls, behind the desks, behind the screens, parsing tables, blandly self-assured in their branded polos and thinning hair, these men have no use for me. Tomorrow is a formality. I was dead the moment I walked through the door.

I don’t know why I feel like confessing. Too many mistakes to count.

Don’t let me forget the boredom.

The echo won’t die with me.

The night nurse is gone. The coats with clipboards will be here soon. Should I try to sleep or watch the sunrise?

Come morning, there is talk of pending faxes and new tests to be done. The meeting’s not postponed as much as reimagined. The TV is off, amplifying the growing static outside the room. In the air, through the whispers and shuffled papers, there is a note of danger. It’s contagious, and it’s spreading fast.

Hope.