STROKE
by Bast
Characters not mine--Wolf's. I don't get anything from writing this--sometimes not
even satisfaction.
Note: Story takes place 20 years in the future.
Serena pauses in the doorway to the nursing home patio. A lone figure, wheelchair
bound, sits staring at nothing. She approaches her and notes how the once vibrant red
hair has turned a dull dishwater gray.
"Elizabeth."
The woman turns her head. Excess fluid gleams in her faded blue eyes; but
suddenly, the spark of recognition makes them glow. The woman smiles, makes
unintelligible noises.
Serena kneels down to meet her at eye level. "It's good to see you."
The woman moves gnarled hands awkwardly, trying to grasp a pack of
cigaretts and a lighter which are resting in her lap.
"Here, let me help you." Serena stills the shaking hands, noting how
dry and scaled the skin is. For a moment she is assailed by memories--years
of being played by those hands, being tuned like a cello to perfect pitch.
She will not think about that now. Not now.
She puts the cigarette in Elizabeth's mouth and flicks the lighter. "Dr.
Bishop says you're making progress."
Elizabeth makes gutteral noises, stares at something on the ground. A
stream of drool flows from the left corner of her mouth.
Serena gently turns the woman's head and meets her gaze. "I love you,"
she whispers.
End
by Bast
Characters not mine--Wolf's. I don't get anything from writing this--sometimes not
even satisfaction.
Note: Story takes place 20 years in the future.
Serena pauses in the doorway to the nursing home patio. A lone figure, wheelchair
bound, sits staring at nothing. She approaches her and notes how the once vibrant red
hair has turned a dull dishwater gray.
"Elizabeth."
The woman turns her head. Excess fluid gleams in her faded blue eyes; but
suddenly, the spark of recognition makes them glow. The woman smiles, makes
unintelligible noises.
Serena kneels down to meet her at eye level. "It's good to see you."
The woman moves gnarled hands awkwardly, trying to grasp a pack of
cigaretts and a lighter which are resting in her lap.
"Here, let me help you." Serena stills the shaking hands, noting how
dry and scaled the skin is. For a moment she is assailed by memories--years
of being played by those hands, being tuned like a cello to perfect pitch.
She will not think about that now. Not now.
She puts the cigarette in Elizabeth's mouth and flicks the lighter. "Dr.
Bishop says you're making progress."
Elizabeth makes gutteral noises, stares at something on the ground. A
stream of drool flows from the left corner of her mouth.
Serena gently turns the woman's head and meets her gaze. "I love you,"
she whispers.
End