PLEASE NOTE: This is not "crime" but gives a taste of my writing. Comments appreciated.
I hate the way my complexion looks in the harsh light bouncing off the bright white walls. I look really washed out and pasty. I know that my eyes aren't working properly as everything seems too bright and almost surreal. It's like a photograph with a vignette around the edges. It doesn't look right.
He said my eyes were dilated and unresponsive to light so that must be why. I've never liked white walls. It's just... too clinical.
I feel cold. From here I can see a bead of sweat on his forehead but then again, he is working hard. I hope he used deodorant.
I'm watching him from the corner of the room. I'm slightly above him. I can see where his hair is thinning. Actually, that's not true. I can see the reflection of the lights bouncing from the shiny skin on his scalp beneath the remaining strands. Does that sound bitchy? I shouldn't be bitchy.
Not in my condition.
I'm wired up to machines that monitor my vital signs. I'm lying on a table, transferred there by paramedics attending my house after I fell..... no, after I was pushed down the stairs. I was pushed. By him. The man working on me.
There's so much white here. Light bouncing off stainless steel. Off white walls. Tiles And green. Snot green. Clinical green. Antiseptic green. They, the green people, scurry around him like minions as he works on me in a steady rhythm. Fleetingly I remember reading that Staying Alive was good for compressions. Ah, ah, ah, ah, staying alive... Am I alive?
He's working hard, I'll give him that. Barely had time to fasten his scrubs. I can still hear the Bee Gees in my head and have to fight the urge to stand behind him and check for sequins. Not that I could move if I wanted to. I seem stuck in this corner. I'd look for the white light if there wasn't so much of it already.
He's doing a good show of playing the doting husband, I'll give him that. He's using words like "dammit" and "for fuck's sake" a lot. Oh, yeah, and the word "breathe" features a lot too. I wonder if I am subconsciously holding my breath to spite him. Could I be that heartless?
Yes, I think I could.
I'm taking a perverse enjoyment in his exertions but I am a bit miffed that I may die with the Bee Gees playing on a loop in my head. That would be a good torture for him, now that I think about it. I could lock him in the bedroom, tied to our bed, our marital bed where he lay with some whore and put the Bee Gees on repeat. Though in my vengeful state, it seems too lenient.
He keeps an eye on my heart rate. I wonder if it's guilt that motivates him. Guilt at seeing me standing in the doorway watching as he heaved and bucked above the whore. Sorry..... receptionist. Twenty year old receptionist. Young enough to be his daughter. Money grabbing daughter.
I remember stepping backwards. I couldn't take my eyes off him. Not her. She was nothing then, nothing now. It's always been him. He came towards me, wrapping a towel around his waist, hand outstretched, trying to explain. Every step he took towards me, I took one back. Did I realise I was getting close to the stairs? He lunged towards me, I shot back and then there was nothing under my feet, a feeling of floating on air and then darkness. Till the bright white room with it's stainless steel and snot green. I arrived before my body did.
There's a flat line now. Someone is pushing him out of the way while another gets the paddles ready. The green person places the paddles on my chest (horribly exposed for all and sundry to see the slightly grey, ill fitting bra - if I had known I could have worn the pink set). He tells everyone to stand clear and suddenly, there's an awful pain shooting through me. I cry out but they can't hear me and I feel a tug towards my body.
A few seconds later, another jolt. Another tug. Do I really want to go back? What will I have if I do? A cheating husband, an impending divorce, splitting the assets? Could I forgive him? Am I better off as dead as our relationship?Another jolt, tugged again. I can see the flush over his cheeks, the true panic in his eyes. Does he still love me? There have been cracks, I've known that for a while. Could they be repaired?
I can hear him pleading as they shock me again. I'm close enough to see the grey hairs on my head, the worry lines around his eyes.
He was my life. Can I really take the chance of waking up and not having him there? He's still pleading. He's begging them to try again. The green people glance at each other and they prep for another shock. I guess I have to decide. I can see a tear run down his cheek and I feel like I could cry myself. I hate him for cheating but he doesn't deserve this.
Another shock, another tug. Another heartbeat.