Drop of Life
By
Denise
I watch as the fluid trickles down the edge of the dressing, slowly, oh so slowly, racing towards the edge. It reaches the corner and starts to get bigger. Size is, of course, relative. It could triple in mass and still be a drop. It grows, its confines bulging as the molecules struggle to maintain cohesion.
Slowly it becomes a victim of its own success, getting bigger, fatter until the skin of the drop can no longer defy gravity. It expands, elongating as gravity warps its perfect spherical form into an ellipse. It stretches and thins; now looking like a pregnant pear. The base grows wider and I find myself counting the seconds, making a private bet on when it loses its battle.
It doesn't want to fall, that much is obvious. Why else would it cling so tenaciously, defying the very laws that govern its existence.
Matter tends to flow from areas of high concentration to low concentration, all the while gravity likes to pull things together. The universe is expanding, careening outwards at billions of miles a second. But expanding into what? Nothingness. Is there really such a thing as nothing?
I tell people I have nothing to do, but I always do. I can read a book, surf the net, breathe, live. I won't be doing that for much longer, living that is. Well, I won't be breathing either. Even after it's over I won't be doing nothing. I'll be decomposing. And once that's done, I'll be moldering, existing for all eternity in a large metal box. It seems I'll never be able to do 'nothing'. So maybe there's no such thing as nothing. Nothing doesn't exist. I won't exist. Does that mean I'm nothing?
This is so odd. Every other time I've died, it's been quick. Abydos, the Nox, heck even my alternate self has died a quick death. Maybe that was my warning. Maybe I've been living on borrowed time since I was killed on Ra's ship? Cheating death is like cheating on your taxes; eventually it catches up with you. I never thought it'd end this way. Then again, who does?
At first, twenty-four hours seemed like such a short time, now it feels like forever. I'm impatient; I want it to be over. This waiting is torture. Why can't I just die? What difference does it make in the grand scheme of things if I die at noon or night?
Will existing for a few more hours make a difference? Anywhere but the infirmary supply cabinet. So I'll use up a few more bandages, Janet will have to account for a few more CC's of morphine. They'll type different numbers on my death certificate. Big deal.
I'm tired of waiting, tired of feeling my life slowly ebb away. I had my chance; I should have ended it a few hours ago while I still could. It would have been easy, just slip out of the infirmary and into the armory. Or better yet, there are all these nice drugs around here. One little syringe full and it would have been over. Why didn't I do that? Was I afraid of dying?
I think I still harbored some hope. I still had the idea that maybe Janet's diagnosis was wrong. It's happened before. She's the person who sent me to a mental ward thinking I was cracking up when all it was was a little alien influence. She examined Sam while she had Jolinar and didn't figure it out. She's not a bad doctor, far from it, but she's made a mistake or two over the past 5 years. She agreed with Sam when she said it was a lethal dose, but as smart as Sam is, she doesn't know everything. She could have been wrong. Could have been, but wasn't. I just didn't accept that fact. Until I was hooked up to these machines and too weak to move. Until it was too late.
Now, I have nothing to do but lie here and wait. Wait for my lungs to fill up, wait for my organs to melt, wait for my heart to give out and my brain to suffocate. Wait for my friends to file in and say all those nice things they couldn't or wouldn't say while I was alive.
I don't want to wait. I don't want to hear anymore. I want it to be over.
I look again at my arm. I watch the drip stretch, thinning more. It tries to hang on, tries to fight gravity. But gravity wins and I watch it fall, splashing on the sheets in slow motion. I see it throw up little tendrils, reaching out like they're begging to go back. Stretching out in supplication, crying at being separated from its home.
The tendrils fall and the drop spreads. The cotton of the sheets pulling it apart, tearing it asunder. It spreads out bigger and bigger, growing thinner and thinner, aided not only by the absorbency of the cotton but the moisture proof mattress underneath. It thins and pales, growing cold and stiff. It's not alive now; it's just a bit of hazardous material, a droplet of medical waste.
It's me. A tiny part of me just died. A bit of blood that was sustaining my life, coursing through my veins, feeding my tissues, is now dead. I'm dripping to death. I watch another drop of blood start to edge down the dressing, following the path of its brother. I watch it gather and swell, growing large and healthy. It glints in the bright overhead lights. I think I see a tiny fragment of skin swimming in its middle. I watch it play follow the leader, relentlessly drawn by gravity to its fate. It can't fight it. It doesn't have the strength. It's drawn down the same path, consigned to the same fortune as the one before.
It stretches and falls, reaching out its arms for help. It too, melts into the other, stretching into oblivion.
I envy it. I wish I could follow it. I want to follow it. Why can't I follow it? Why can't I let go? Can somebody help me let go…please? Please? Just let me go.
Fin