The Writer’s Block
Spark Word: Virus
She was gasping. She couldn’t breathe. The doctor’s words echoed in her mind. It was a virus. Antibiotics would not work. Nothing would. Her throat closed. Hot tears slowly burned at her eyes.
The doctor tore his gaze from her and looked at the woman’s son. “I am sorry, son. We cannot help her.” Brown eyes watched the young man. “We will keep her comfortable and isolated, free of charge.” he offered. He tried to sound sympathetic, but in his own ears, it sounded lame– flat. He closed his eyes as the demanding shouts began. This young man was angry.
“Incompetence! If she dies, you will lose all of your funding!” the young man roared, his face white with anger. He drove his fist into the doctor’s gut. The old man doubled over. The young man slammed his belly again, far too fast for the old man to comprehend. The doctor’s lunch flew from his mouth, filled with burning bile. He stared at the remains of his soup. Green peas, orange carrots, white chickenflesh, and green bile mixed with broth.
The young man spoke again, his voice soft and icy at first. “You get in there, and if you can’t save her, I’ll see you on the streets, living like the scum you are!” He roared anger, his tone filled with fire and salted wounds, and stormed out.
From the ground, the doctor slowly, shakily rose. He felt ill and tired. Slowly, he walked to the door and closed it. He couldn’t save the woman– nobody could. He resigned himself to either early, unpleasant retirement, or the vain hope that the young, rich benefactor of the hospital would be more forgiving.