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Shit.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
59
-Angel
I don't know how long I've been in the infirmary and won't ask. I've accepted that I'm a useless good-for-nothing and stopped trying.
I do whatever they tell me.
It's hopeless.
Useless.
I screw up everything.
Every. Time.
So, when they tell me to eat, I eat. Maybe I'll get lucky and choke.
They tell me to sleep, I sleep. To pass time.
They want me to piss, I piss.
I take their zombie medications and hope for an incompetent nurse and an overdose.
I wish they would tell me to die.
60
-Angel
The nurses and doctors want to know what happened even though there is an eyewitness who told them I was showering like I always did. My supervising orderly would say I was smiling, singing, and stupidly trying to dance in the shower while covered in slippery soap. I know that's what the orderly saw, because that's what I did.
But they're still asking. They want me to say it. They want me to tell them I tripped so they can ask if that's the truth. They want to call me a liar.
"Mister Brandon has been calling every day to check on you. I have the number, so whenever you're ready to call let me know and I'll make sure it happens." Some random nurse says.
"Mister Brandon? I don't want to talk to him." I turn over in my bed, staring at the wall while the patter of retreating feet fades from my room.
The last thing I need right now is another announcement. Another judgment. Another person repeating to me the same words I was told when my trial ended: I will die in this place.
I'd be happy to, but could we make it sooner rather than later?
I scoff, thinking of dying and wishing that A-and stop the thought right there, realizing I haven't seen . . . a certain someone since that day in the shower.
I woke up without . . . and don't want to jinx anything.
If I wonder too much she might reappear.
61
-Angel
An orderly sets my lunch on the tray table.
It's all steaming finger food.
