I watched him twitch as they moved the pipe after they had been assured that he was in the semi-fowler's position.
He struggled moderately. The pain must be unimaginable.
Horace turned to the nurses, he wished they would handle him more gently, but he couldn't blame them. They were already doing their best, and he was aware that their adjustments wouldn't mitigate the pain or agony he suffered, for they were already gentle enough.
He looked at his protruding belly, and the smell from it was odd.
Horace thought there must be some form of decay about to commence in there.
He felt an irritation in his throat, sharp, a rancid taste in his mouth. The last liquid flowed through, a sensation painfully ticklish made him shudder.
He thought about surviving for a moment, going back to his cherished family and son, a juvenile in high school.
The young boy needed him most at this point in his life, as a mentor and a father.
He thought about getting to see outside again, having to sleep without pain, and a sour feeling tugging at his throat when he exhaled, walking with his legs again, and climbing the bed without help; all these seemed like privileges to him now.
They flashed before his eyes, like an impossibility, a confabulation at least, with a failing heart and a brain, Alzheimer's free, although he barely remembered what his feet actually looked like, nor the last time he had seen them hail and hearty.
From his speculations lately, he'd done nothing to deserve this. Even the food they had at home was healthy. They'd adhered to every medical and dietary advice... He stopped in his overthinking tracks.
All these thoughts were useless, sentimental to his illness, none of them rendered the much-needed recovery, rapid or slow. He was tired, physically and mentally exhausted.
If it were death, then he was ready to die and finally be free of the pains, but how beautiful it would've been, had faith given him just one more chance to watch his son grow, live a better life, and grow old together with an irreplaceable woman.
Another man soon walked through the door.
He looked like a priest, an immaculate white alb and a matching white cincture. His stole stood out, a conspicuous light blue amongst the glowing and flowing whites.
He looked to be approaching his septuagenarian era. Horace looked at him, placated as a sense of hope filled his heart, his eyes lit up as the nurses fed another ml of liquid formula into the pipe.
We watched him as he walked closer and stood by his mother's side, next to Uncle Horace.
"Ok, Horace," his mother started.
" I'm afraid we'll be on our way now, I'm praying for you. Horace, Horace... Trust me, you'll get through this. You'll be better. I'll check on you again. Soon. In the meantime, be strong, don't lose faith, you'll survive," Mom uttered softly, standing up to leave.
I wanted to stay back, to watch if he'll get better and the next question on my mind, was,
Would he even make it out of these walls that had swallowed him in pipes and needles alive?
I could leave without a word, for my conscience would prick me for the rest of my life, if he ended up kicking the bucket.
The wonderful tasting chocolate, the Christmas presents, the holidays at grandma's, and most devastating of all, no more Uncle Horace.
I opened my mouth to say a word, but my eyes involuntarily flickered to the wall, an extra shadow by his side, without a body.
Seven people gathered by the wall, yet a sixth shadow lingered beside them. It was taller, stretched absurdly thin, surreal.
It had to be a lamp or the infusion pole, but, no, I looked closer, it had a head, and hands too.
I ignored it, I didn't want to go home with a nightmare. Furthermore, I considered it had to be my imagination again.
Perhaps, I was phantasmagorizing a dark figure by the side of a sick man, in the late afternoon.
"Get well soon, Uncle," I said, almost whispering as I recovered from my sight.
He gave a weak nod as Mom and I left the room.
A halcyon calm spread through my body after a clean, refreshing shower.
I felt completely rejuvenated. The bathroom smelled faintly of my soap, a peculiar blend of licorice and roses, sharp sweetness laced with velvety floral notes. It was the kind of scent that lingered, wrapping the room in both candy-like mischief and soft, romantic warmth.
I carefully shifted the brightly colored shower curtain splashed with turquoise stripes, cheerful against the tiled walls and glowing under the bathroom light.
I could see vapor floating right off my skin and disappearing into the air.
I heaved a huge sigh of relief, the cold starting to pierce through my skin slowly. I felt an odd pull in my eyes, like little needles jabbing into them, I blinked hard from the prickle, realizing that one of my longer lashes had dropped water into them.
I reached through the space between the shower curtains and made for my towel by the side.
I quickly dabbed against my face, and then the affected right eye.
It felt better. Then, I dried my skin and my hair.
Shifting the curtains aside fully, I stepped out like performers from backstage. Standing for a second on the rug to dry my sole, I paddled to the rectangular wall-mounted mirror.
I stared at myself, lovely green eyeballs that reminded just about any curious observer of a bright and vivid emerald gem, framed by long curled lashes.
I leaned closer to my reflection, two unwelcome moles on the right side of my neck and jaw.
I examined the one on my jaw like I usually did, tugging at it. I guess I wished it would just... disappear. I disliked it. More because it bulged out on the surface.
It felt like a blemish to the fair landscape of smooth skin. An excellent nose, for which I had my father to thank, and thin, wide lips resting against each other.
My damp hair stuck to my face and shoulders like fur dipped in a stream.
My eyes lowered to my neck and then to two developed glands, flexible and glued to my chest, rounder and fuller since my early teens.
The ones for which, I didn't like how they wobbled when I walked without holding them in place.
Their centres were large and darker, protruding at the tips.
I wondered if the other girls had them, not just them but were they as large and conspicuous at the middle as mine?
Well, that didn't matter except for the fact that I felt insecure about it, my consolation being that my dresses were a shade and they were tucked away in them, behind the scenes.
I worried less, since they were barely visible.
The image I looked at once again, was that of a voluptuous young girl, quite skinny with a neck, pale and gazelle-like, spotted with extra moles.
I sighed deeply, another insecurity. The secret reason most of my dresses were turtle-necked. It looked like the creator had attempted pointillism against a white canvas.
One afternoon, at the school cafeteria, during lunch, I had overheard two girls say that moles were the spots where one had been kissed by a past lover. Weird! With that in mind, now, I looked down at the upper inner side of my lap and chuckled to myself. It was amusing.
'Tricia! You've been staring at yourself forever now! Snap out of it!' my head scolded me. I quietly wrapped myself in my towel and proceeded to my room.