Ron, a skinny, bold but handsome 70 year old man was walking by his friend Antonia at high sunny tide, laughing out loud of passed and youth times under a green tunnel of trees, passing a front of houses playing blues, with the paint worn out the doors and half opened windows, approaching by 5 meters the literary coffee at the corner of the block, where they sternly stopped for the light when the long centipede like side of a bus, getting on the sharp corner, ran over his legs with its sides sending him to the gashing ground in sheer torturing pain, which latter black ebony blackout as his conscience ebbed away . Police didn’t sign constancy, he only got taken in the ambulance shaking on the cobble to the emaciated worn out grayish building, public health emergency room, or hell.
It was a cold white mephic room, mephistopheles swarming like a drunken firefly. Ron woke up after about 70 hours to 8 other bunk looking beds, small white covered hard as oak, with an archaic button to ring for calling or yelling in despair, and , the other patiants with lingering screams, deaths and cries of mortal pain made it impossible to bear. 3 times a day the stiffed plump blond heavy nurse would come to cure the staggering wounds, under a burrito covering his legs. He felt his legs under but couldn’t move them, they felt just numb like his heart, and had a shoe lace desperately propping his jaw open so he couldn’t bite his mad tounge. The sheet was a white ironed drape that was carefully put on peoples face as death came along, a theater play of everlasting tragedy, like if daytime never existing, except for the vague sun light, with no pity like a beautyfull dancer taking those souls in pain to a better world, but Ron didn’t want to go yet.
On the fourth day they took the burrito off when as he sees the lack of legs, entering in a shock, one of those amputation shock, of having two stumps, a septic shock with trauma nucleus. He burst into tears, and kept crying like a desperate child, then as they demanded him to calm down he lowered his voice tacit to public ear, to mourn inwards. He saw death near, ajar and to the right, in front, like taking turns in a night time canasta game. They were so badly ill in that room, it was such a hell hole that the rickety had nothing to say to each other, either they yelled or murmured their last painfull breaths aloft as that bright warm light came to get them.
Ron was an atheist by heart and soul, he referred to faith as a sickness that spreads, but that was dying year by year. He enjoyed Nietzsche very much. Like if science was the savior of the confused feeble minded. After two weeks of non stop torture he got sent to a care home on a wheel chair that cheered a sound every turn of the rusty wheel. He, lacking of spirit, would rather live in his room with his tall skinny ebony eye mate, an old tube but big screen tv, shelves to stack clothing and a bent Jesus, a picture of Christ by Dali. They smoothly conversed about how god didn’t make his son nail on the log, the cross was a metaphor of death, but mire pain. Paulo, his room mate took his time to read the bible and try to explain to Ron that god didn’t punish, saying this to Ron to alleviate and mitigate the idea that he couldn’t walk anymore. The friend Antonia, that was with him the day of the accident forgot about him, as such a human too human act of non pity.
In a week they encouraged Ron to take the wheel chair for a spin, they went to a near by small coffee shop. Talking with him then at the coffee was very different, a gasp of freedom, as if for a little while he had a life, he had 2 coffees and an ice cream, like if he hadn’t ate in years.
In a month living like this, mostly in his room or sitting yard where a couple of plants gave life, the threshold of life and birth was near. He had a heart attack at night time that ended his existence.
Author Notes: based on a true story, with added fiction