Intransigent by Eveline Hood

Things change, they say. It can’t last forever. Think positive. But what if it does last forever? What if your life went from relatively happy to a dark, dismal horror show that was a real nightmare in a blink? What if you just wanted to die, and you couldn’t escape?
My life ended nearly a year ago. I still breathe and work and I’ve learned to laugh again. It doesn’t feel genuine though. It’s a mask, a disguise, just like the reassuring smile I wear, all in an effort to make the people around me feel secure in the knowledge that I am fine. No one sees, and that’s fine too. The less they see the better it is.
All the details have been worked out, with another plan in place. Should the first fail, the second will undoubtedly succeed, though it will certainly draw more attention than I want. I can’t take it anymore.
I’d made my choice eleven months ago, right after waking in a strange dim room, wired for sound and in more pain than I could have believed humanly possible to survive. And unable to speak or move. I thought I knew anguish, agony. I was a babe in the woods, and now? Now I know all too well.
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I heard a shuffle, a tinny clang and a word that sounded like a curse that I didn’t understand. My lungs screamed as they tried to breathe and were denied. All I could do is claw at whatever I was laying on in desperation. Then there was air. I knew it tasted of chemical and fear but it was the sweetest tasting inhale that ever existed.
The nurse, a horribly beautiful creature than shone like the sun and sported row upon row of needle sharp teeth spit unrecognisable words at me while injecting some liquid into my arm. I couldn’t even moan, much less move in my own defence. Her voice was Legion, and I heard them in her words, the same sweet voices I knew so well.
The world changed and she was simply an incredibly lovely blonde by the name of Emma. With a gentle smile, she tried to reassure me, her worried eyes kept flicking to the monitor, hand warm on my shoulder. I still couldn’t understand her words, but the sentiment was loud and clear.
I remember the oddest things about that day. Her black chipped fingernails, short but diligently kept. How they contrasted sharply with her mild manner. The strong medicinal fragrance in the room, astringent. It stung my nose and made my eyes water. The mist of condensation on the window obscuring the view. The green-eyed man in the doorway. The doctor. I remember him. How it occurred to me that this was a movie set and maybe I was being pranked. He was almost too attractive. The nurse, how she took my hand in hers as he began to tell me in his broken English why I was there.
The cracks in the ceiling. The cracks in the windshield. My shattered life. I decided then. That day. That moment. In the aftermath of my life, I chose death. They refused to allow it, admonishing me and then setting a guard at my bedside after my third attempt to end my misery.
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The one constant was the green-eyed man. I saw him often, that man in the doorway, as I healed. Under his gaze I learned to sit, then walk and eventually run. He watched the struggle to stand solitary, watched me scream in pain and frustration. He never spoke, but was there as I learned talk and laugh again, to pretend. He was there in the night when I woke gasping and crying, never touching but comforting by his presence.
Eventually Dr. Handsome informed me that I was physically well enough to travel. I could go home. His smile was sad, as he brushed my hair from my cheek, and kissed me softly, with growing fire. It had been so long since I’d been touched, and the long lingering looks had been the only source of light in a dark place. I let him fill me, and we were kept warm by the flames of desire and burning kisses, until the sun rose over the mountain peaks and he slipped out of my room with whispers and promises.
We were discreet he and I, meeting in closets and empty rooms, stealing kisses and fanning the flames until we could consummate once again our love. I did come to love him, in a way, not with my whole heart, but with an irreplaceable piece. I kept all his notes, written in a delicious blend of English and his mother tongue. Words that flowed like poetry.
I prepared for my departure, carefully packing what belongings were saved, and smiled sadly at the small amount of trappings I was leaving with. I arrived here with so many riches, now all but a pile of things remained. My ever-present companion loitered in the corner, sad eyes observing my motions.  I’d miss his company. 
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Death lingered, though not for me. Never for me it appeared. Three days before I was to leave, the tiny hospital was overrun with the worried family and friends of a terrible accident. The sounds of their mourning and wailing was an odd symphony, punctuated occasionally by the muffled messages over the intercom.
On my last night, my meagre belongings packed into the suitcase that was a gift from the staff, Dr. Handsome entered my room, firmly closing and locking the door behind him. He spoke firmly, staring into my eyes with his fiery chocolate-brown stunners, hands holding me fast around my upper arms in an almost painful grip. He was disheveled, normally well-groomed, his hair was a tousled mess and his clothes wrinkled and stained. Exhausted, he spoke in terms I couldn’t understand, in a language beyond my comprehension. I kissed him to stop the flow of his words, my hands smoothing his hair before wrapping tightly around his middle. I could hear his heart beating against my ear, and then I was on the bed and in another world.
Dawn broke over the hills, and I broke away from his sleeping embrace, standing scarred and nude watching him in his dreams. I knew I would miss him. It would be so easy to slip that diamond on my finger and slip back under the warm sheets. I think I could have been happy. It wasn’t to be. Unattended, goodbyes said the night beside, I left my lover dreaming and the hospital behind me, climbing into the dilapidated cab, eyes streaming the truth from my eyes. Yes. I’d miss him. Home.
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My home had been sold, the belongings packed into a storage unit, and left for my return. I filled my tiny one bedroom apartment with few things, I wouldn’t be there long, and sold the rest. I can’t deal with the ghosts, the memories. I’ve seen few people, by choice, made no effort to be friendly to the neighbours. I don’t want to be here.
And so now I am ready. This morning I mailed handwritten letters to a few loved ones, those who would blame themselves or required closure. There were a couple. Ten letters in all, nine brief and matter of fact. One full of all the emotion and regret that I could pour onto the pages. He deserves that. At least that.
On the table, framed photographed, husband, children, friends, family, and him. My life before, my life after. All gone from me, out of reach, waiting in a place of peace and nostalgia. I haven’t been taking my shots, medication for pain that does nothing except fuck with my head and make me sleep. I’d give anything for a joint. The ampoule is full, its tip gleaming in the bright sunlight, a drop of precious fluid hanging on its tip.
With practiced ease, using my teeth, I tighten the rubber band on my arm. The veins stand out in fat ropes, pushing against my pale skin, throbbing. The thin needle slides like a hot knife through butter, and with no pain. Depressing the plunger I feel release, of the weight that I’d been carrying suddenly lifted, as I remove the band and empty the last of the morphine into my bloodstream. “I love you,” I say to the photographs, each face smiling from its frame. Happier times, faded.
I’m so tired of fighting. Fighting to stay for their sakes, fighting to smile through the pain and struggle. I just want quiet, instead of the screaming inside my head and body. I don’t want to hear the screaming of my family anymore. So cold, though I stand in the blazing sunlight that floods my living room. Dying room. Alone, but not.  My green-eyed friend has come to keep me company as I wait for my release.
It’s harder to breathe, each breath takes forever to fill my starving lungs.  His sad eyes watch me as I drift to the oversized chair, and curl into it.  Wrapping myself in my warm thick blanket, wearing the shirt I wore as I slept next to him, I close my eyes. I can feel him next to me, like that last night, kids asleep in the bed next to us, his warm naked body against me. I feel their little arms around me. I remember his eyes –  feel him I inside me, whispering I love you in his language.  I remember it all.  Peace at last.
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Eveline Hood
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Raw Screenshot from The Orphan Killer 2 Bound x Blood Photo by Matt Farnsworth, Creator Releasing 2015  ©™ Full Fathom 5 Productions LLC
Raw Screenshot from The Orphan Killer 2 Bound x Blood
Photo by Matt Farnsworth, Creator
Releasing 2015
©™ Full Fathom 5 Productions LLC
“The characters Marcus Miller, and Babysister are owned by  Matt Farnsworth”
©™ Full Fathom 5 Productions LLC
Full Fathom 5 Productions LLC All Rights Reserved
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