Donations
He stood before the mahogany
desk, behind which sat an impeccably dressed man with a ledger and gold pen in
hand. Like the man's pinstriped suit and azure cufflinks, the pen looked
expensive. Behind the man at the desk was a door to the left and one to the
right. Neither had handles, visible hinges, or any other markings, but you knew
in your gut they were portals to elsewhere.
"Greetings, Mr. Wainright," said the man in the suit. "You're early, but timing has ever been unimportant in these matters. Many believe the end is preordained. 'When it's your time, it's your time' is a common misconception that..."
Gregory Wainright squawked. "End?! My time?! I went to the hospital for a simple lap-band procedure!" Dread curdled his stomach and squeezed its vile contents up his throat.
The man in the suit checked his ledger. "Hmm. Yes, there does seem to be a mistake. You are not Gideon Wainright the musician?" Gregory shook his head. The man flipped a page and nodded. "Sorry about that." He looked in the large tome. "Ah, here we are. Gregory Wainright, there was a mishap at the hospital and you were confused with the other patient in room 201. Happens all the time."
"How did I d-d-"
"Die? Croak? Give up the ghost? The doctor put you to sleep, cut you open, then removed your heart, liver, kidneys, and a couple other salvageable parts. Those parts were then rushed to needy patients. It was rather heroic, actually." The man smiled.
"How dare they?! I'm not even a donor! They had no right!"
"Oh." The azure cufflinks darkened to purple then crimson as the man behind the desk stopped smiling. "Well, that changes things a bit." He made a notation in the book with the gold pen and turned the page. Then he waved at the door on his left and it swung open. "This is your final exit Mr. Gregory Wainright.” The space was an ugly fold of greasy darkness that pulled upon Gregory's very essence.
"Wait!" shouted Gregory as he slid toward the opening. "What about the other door? Why can't I go there?" The umbral blot drew on him like a scent, hungry and insatiable.
The man cocked his head to the side. "Surely you understand the choices you make, even those at the end, matter, Mr. Wainright. Gluttony and greed was ever iniquity clothed in finery, decadence, and self-preservation. You chose poorly."
The maw of eternal night now tore at Gregory even as he resisted the inevitable force. "Wait!" He cried. "Please, show me what I could..."
...Gregory Wainright, CEO of the investment firm Lorus Ltd., hated hospitals almost as much as diet and exercise, small animals, and liberal, NPR-listening, environmental philanthropists who wasted money on lost causes. Hospitals, full of the dying, accounted for the spread of more infectious diseases than anywhere else on earth - even airports. So it was with a healthy dose of fear and skepticism he crept into room 201 at Parkview Memorial to await his surgery. Normally it would have been a quick outpatient appointment, but his size, (a limber 472 pounds and not an ounce more) and some fat removal denied him this convenience. To make matters worse, his grasping nephew would be in charge for 48 hours and that knucklehead was subject to elect himself president of the company. The acid in his stomach bubbled.
As he crossed the threshold of the hospital room Gregory gagged on the smell of death. Like most hospital rooms it had been disinfected, but the citrus chemical could not mask the odor of decay. The other bed in the room cradled a near-corpse, a skeletal man attached to several monitors and machines that beeped and hissed. Gregory wrinkled his noise and sat on his bed careful not to touch anything. "This is unacceptable. You would think, for the money this will cost me, I could at least have my own room." The bed creaked as he shifted his bulk.
The near-corpse stirred and a machine hissed, another beeped. "You'd think they would come get these organs so I can die in peace."
Gregory flinched at the whisper. "You're alive? You smell as if you died a week ago. Small wonder the insurance rates are so high. They should let you die rather than waste perfectly good resources to harvest your organs. What a tragedy."
A desiccated hand clawed back covers to finally scratch a balding pate, its dark skin stretched taut over the skull. "Heh. Don't work up your appetite, mister. I swear I don't taste good and the hospital food isn't much better." A machine hissed laughter. Another beeped.
Gregory scowled, twisting fleshy lips in distaste. "I fail to see why anyone would want your obviously diseased organs. Imagine, running around with a dead man's kidney or lung like some modern day Frankenstein." He shuddered. "Well, maybe you can get some brownie points from St. Peter. Ahahaha! He snorted and wiped a tear from his eye, smiling. "You sir are a fool. I wouldn't donate an organ even if I were to lay dying as surely as you are." There was no response from the other bed, only the hiss and beep of machines...
Gregory's fat arms trembled as he clung to the door frame, his sweaty grip slipping. "But I gave them my organs anyway!" he howled. "Doesn't that count for something?"
The man in the pin-striped suit grimaced as the lost soul fought his fate. "I truly am sorry Mr. Wainright, but that was not your intent. Had you voluntarily given of yourself - time, money, energy, even a pint of blood - such a generous act might have saved you endless torment."
Gregory's grip finally gave out as the darkness swallowed him, the door closing behind his wail with a soft hiss and a click.
Written in 2013 for the DPS Writing Competition, Lyle's entry, "Donations", was awarded 2nd Place.
"Greetings, Mr. Wainright," said the man in the suit. "You're early, but timing has ever been unimportant in these matters. Many believe the end is preordained. 'When it's your time, it's your time' is a common misconception that..."
Gregory Wainright squawked. "End?! My time?! I went to the hospital for a simple lap-band procedure!" Dread curdled his stomach and squeezed its vile contents up his throat.
The man in the suit checked his ledger. "Hmm. Yes, there does seem to be a mistake. You are not Gideon Wainright the musician?" Gregory shook his head. The man flipped a page and nodded. "Sorry about that." He looked in the large tome. "Ah, here we are. Gregory Wainright, there was a mishap at the hospital and you were confused with the other patient in room 201. Happens all the time."
"How did I d-d-"
"Die? Croak? Give up the ghost? The doctor put you to sleep, cut you open, then removed your heart, liver, kidneys, and a couple other salvageable parts. Those parts were then rushed to needy patients. It was rather heroic, actually." The man smiled.
"How dare they?! I'm not even a donor! They had no right!"
"Oh." The azure cufflinks darkened to purple then crimson as the man behind the desk stopped smiling. "Well, that changes things a bit." He made a notation in the book with the gold pen and turned the page. Then he waved at the door on his left and it swung open. "This is your final exit Mr. Gregory Wainright.” The space was an ugly fold of greasy darkness that pulled upon Gregory's very essence.
"Wait!" shouted Gregory as he slid toward the opening. "What about the other door? Why can't I go there?" The umbral blot drew on him like a scent, hungry and insatiable.
The man cocked his head to the side. "Surely you understand the choices you make, even those at the end, matter, Mr. Wainright. Gluttony and greed was ever iniquity clothed in finery, decadence, and self-preservation. You chose poorly."
The maw of eternal night now tore at Gregory even as he resisted the inevitable force. "Wait!" He cried. "Please, show me what I could..."
...Gregory Wainright, CEO of the investment firm Lorus Ltd., hated hospitals almost as much as diet and exercise, small animals, and liberal, NPR-listening, environmental philanthropists who wasted money on lost causes. Hospitals, full of the dying, accounted for the spread of more infectious diseases than anywhere else on earth - even airports. So it was with a healthy dose of fear and skepticism he crept into room 201 at Parkview Memorial to await his surgery. Normally it would have been a quick outpatient appointment, but his size, (a limber 472 pounds and not an ounce more) and some fat removal denied him this convenience. To make matters worse, his grasping nephew would be in charge for 48 hours and that knucklehead was subject to elect himself president of the company. The acid in his stomach bubbled.
As he crossed the threshold of the hospital room Gregory gagged on the smell of death. Like most hospital rooms it had been disinfected, but the citrus chemical could not mask the odor of decay. The other bed in the room cradled a near-corpse, a skeletal man attached to several monitors and machines that beeped and hissed. Gregory wrinkled his noise and sat on his bed careful not to touch anything. "This is unacceptable. You would think, for the money this will cost me, I could at least have my own room." The bed creaked as he shifted his bulk.
The near-corpse stirred and a machine hissed, another beeped. "You'd think they would come get these organs so I can die in peace."
Gregory flinched at the whisper. "You're alive? You smell as if you died a week ago. Small wonder the insurance rates are so high. They should let you die rather than waste perfectly good resources to harvest your organs. What a tragedy."
A desiccated hand clawed back covers to finally scratch a balding pate, its dark skin stretched taut over the skull. "Heh. Don't work up your appetite, mister. I swear I don't taste good and the hospital food isn't much better." A machine hissed laughter. Another beeped.
Gregory scowled, twisting fleshy lips in distaste. "I fail to see why anyone would want your obviously diseased organs. Imagine, running around with a dead man's kidney or lung like some modern day Frankenstein." He shuddered. "Well, maybe you can get some brownie points from St. Peter. Ahahaha! He snorted and wiped a tear from his eye, smiling. "You sir are a fool. I wouldn't donate an organ even if I were to lay dying as surely as you are." There was no response from the other bed, only the hiss and beep of machines...
Gregory's fat arms trembled as he clung to the door frame, his sweaty grip slipping. "But I gave them my organs anyway!" he howled. "Doesn't that count for something?"
The man in the pin-striped suit grimaced as the lost soul fought his fate. "I truly am sorry Mr. Wainright, but that was not your intent. Had you voluntarily given of yourself - time, money, energy, even a pint of blood - such a generous act might have saved you endless torment."
Gregory's grip finally gave out as the darkness swallowed him, the door closing behind his wail with a soft hiss and a click.
Written in 2013 for the DPS Writing Competition, Lyle's entry, "Donations", was awarded 2nd Place.
