Blame
A writing challenge from worldofscribble. The subject was death.
"You think it's one of them, don't you?"
Mary sighed internally. She had no idea who the wizened old man sitting beside her bed was, but his constant presence and relentless questions over the past few weeks had exhausted her. She had tried ignoring him, had tried to blank him completely out of her perception, since by now she was certain that he didn't really exist, but just when she thought she had triumphed, there he was at her bedside again.
"Does it matter?" she thought furiously at the spiteful creature. "Even if it is one of them, they've won, and I'll soon be dead."
It was stupid, her momentary impulse to try and converse with this thing, she knew that by now, but she was so tired of its constant badgering questions.
"Of course it matters," the creature crooned, "you wouldn't want the guilty party to escape unpunished, would you?"
She was paralyzed, her useless body rendered motionless from the neck down, but had she been able to move she would've taken great joy from spitting in her tormenter's face.
"What are you then," her mind jeered derisively, "my avenging angel?"
"I am," the thing hesitated, "an interested party. I'd think you'd be interested too, given the circumstances."
Their three faces, beloved and intimately familiar to her even before this hellish ordeal, paraded before the landscape of her inner vision again. Her son, on the cusp of manhood, and yet still so achingly young, staring down at her bedridden figure with what? Sadness, certainly, but was there something darker there, hiding in his hazel eyes? Her husband, magnificently straight-backed, his finely chiseled patrician face, which had for so many years been the source of her strength and courage, giving nothing away as he gazed down at her. And her brother, Terry, his ever-present charisma stripped away, the huge frame of his body crumpled, looking as though someone had punched him in the stomach.
"It must surely be one of them," the old man insisted. "Who else, besides one of these three, could've sabotaged your car, caused your accident, put you here in this bed?"
Who else indeed?
"Mary," the wrinkled thing cajoled, leaning over her helpless form, "you know which one it is, I know you do. Tell me, say their name, and I swear, you will walk again."
Outwardly, nothing changed. Of course, so many of her body's functions were controlled by machines now, her breathing, her heart rate, that there was very little left to her own volition. The blue eyes, now adrift in pools of sorrow, could still move however, and both of these rolled to the side, desperately attempting to escape from the hovering shadow above her.
"I would," she thought, "rather die."
"You think it's one of them, don't you?"
Mary sighed internally. She had no idea who the wizened old man sitting beside her bed was, but his constant presence and relentless questions over the past few weeks had exhausted her. She had tried ignoring him, had tried to blank him completely out of her perception, since by now she was certain that he didn't really exist, but just when she thought she had triumphed, there he was at her bedside again.
"Does it matter?" she thought furiously at the spiteful creature. "Even if it is one of them, they've won, and I'll soon be dead."
It was stupid, her momentary impulse to try and converse with this thing, she knew that by now, but she was so tired of its constant badgering questions.
"Of course it matters," the creature crooned, "you wouldn't want the guilty party to escape unpunished, would you?"
She was paralyzed, her useless body rendered motionless from the neck down, but had she been able to move she would've taken great joy from spitting in her tormenter's face.
"What are you then," her mind jeered derisively, "my avenging angel?"
"I am," the thing hesitated, "an interested party. I'd think you'd be interested too, given the circumstances."
Their three faces, beloved and intimately familiar to her even before this hellish ordeal, paraded before the landscape of her inner vision again. Her son, on the cusp of manhood, and yet still so achingly young, staring down at her bedridden figure with what? Sadness, certainly, but was there something darker there, hiding in his hazel eyes? Her husband, magnificently straight-backed, his finely chiseled patrician face, which had for so many years been the source of her strength and courage, giving nothing away as he gazed down at her. And her brother, Terry, his ever-present charisma stripped away, the huge frame of his body crumpled, looking as though someone had punched him in the stomach.
"It must surely be one of them," the old man insisted. "Who else, besides one of these three, could've sabotaged your car, caused your accident, put you here in this bed?"
Who else indeed?
"Mary," the wrinkled thing cajoled, leaning over her helpless form, "you know which one it is, I know you do. Tell me, say their name, and I swear, you will walk again."
Outwardly, nothing changed. Of course, so many of her body's functions were controlled by machines now, her breathing, her heart rate, that there was very little left to her own volition. The blue eyes, now adrift in pools of sorrow, could still move however, and both of these rolled to the side, desperately attempting to escape from the hovering shadow above her.
"I would," she thought, "rather die."