The Patient One

“Why isn’t my baby crying? He’s just grunting,” screamed Darla.

The midwife whisked little Timothy to a table in the delivery room for a closer examination.

“He was stuck in the birth canal for quite awhile. The doctor will be right in to examine him,” replied the midwife.

Timothy’s breath became increasingly slow and casual. The Patient One made his way from the corner of the room, inching closer to Timothy. The Patient One descended upon Timothy swiftly, bringing overbearing darkness to the small room.

Suddenly, Timothy’s breathing strengthened and his eyes opened curiously. The tired, new mother smothered her new, strong baby with tearful cuddles and kisses. The Patient One returned to his corner and sat quietly.

Timothy got his first car at the age of sixteen, but driving was just too boring. He couldn’t resist the temptation of motorcycles. One cold Sunday morning, Timothy was racing through Ortega Canyon Highway on his Japanese “crotch rocket.” There was barely sufficient sunlight for him to see where he was going.

The Patient One glided from mountain to mountain, hovering low and watching Timothy.

The motorcycle’s rear tire slid over dry dirt and loose rocks and started to fishtail. Timothy was flung to the asphalt like a rag doll. He rolled and tumbled, snapping bones and tearing skin.

Timothy lay, sprawled out on the lonely highway, in front of a blind corner. Around the bend, a moving van approached at a steady clip.

The Patient One descended from the nearest hill with wings spread wide. The Patient One landed gently on the asphalt, taking purposeful steps toward Timothy’s limp body. The van whipped itself around the sharp turn. The driver spied Timothy, quickly slammed the brakes, and stopped with just a few feet to spare.

The Patient One stepped back, then returned to the top of the mountain and watched. Timothy was damn lucky.

Decades passed slowly, like floats in a parade. Timothy dutifully manoeuvred through each phase of life. He walked his daughter down the aisle. Climbed Mt. McKinley. Endured chemo and radiation therapy for testicular cancer. Lost his job. Battled alcoholism. Stood second row at the Stones concert and saw Mick and Keith up close and personal one last time before they faded into history forever.

The Patient One was always there. Watching. Waiting for the designated moment.

Somehow Timothy woke up one morning and he was seventy, with high cholesterol and sciatica. Timothy’s wife insisted on a gym membership, and she could be a formidable foe. So Timothy did what he was told and frequented the gym three days a week.

At 5:45 AM on Sunday morning, Timothy had the indoor pool all to himself. After a brief warm up, he swam hard. Ten minutes later, he felt a pulled a muscle in his chest. Then tightness and pain along the left arm. The copper-like smell that followed was overbearing and confusing.

Lying face down in the pool, Timothy was drowsy and unable to move.

It was time.

The Patient One nudged through the wall like a ghost, surveying the blue water. Timothy floated lifelessly. Arms dangling, head sunk. The Patient One entered the water and caressed Timothy, embracing him with large black wings. Timothy vaguely sensed a heavy, sinking feeling.

He was too weak and too tired to fight The Patient One this time.

The Patient One looked upward with glassy black eyes darker than infinity, grasped Timothy tightly, and flew with the speed of the universe into the cosmos.

Hopefully you enjoyed this tale! Find more stories by J. Lender at jlenderfiction.wordpress.com