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Flash Fiction II: Like Old Horror

May 1, 2011

James clasped Lucy’s hand as she lay on the bed, body and, mostly, head linked to minute machines beyond counting. It didn’t matter, really– the machines weren’t doing a damn thing to keep her alive, and they both knew it.
“We– we had a good time, didn’t we?” He squeezed the words out as tears squeezed themselves from between his eyelids and captured the glow of the many displays.
She smiled weakly up at James and nodded. Her condition had crippled not only the ability to dance, run, and hike in the outdoors, but had removed her most precious possession in losing the use of her vocal cords.
He knew it was a torment for others to speak around her, and usually he refrained from doing so, but it was the end, and they both knew she couldn’t last much longer.
“When you go, if they ask me to move… I just can’t do it. I can’t. Don’t ask me to do it.” Nearing frantic, his eyes searched her face for disapproval.
Gently, she shook her head, then placed her hand on his face. He smiled and bent to kiss her forehead, still smooth with the last vestiges of youth as yet untouched by the oncoming middle age.
Her hand fell away. The machines beeped in simultaneity. A clear, electronic voice said “Distribution complete”.
He left the room and called for the mortician. Mid-call he sank to the couch to continue the conversation; it molded exactly to him and supported just the right amount.
Perhaps it was his imagination, but the house and everything in it felt more alive.
The distribution was complete– she was around. It was like an old horror movie, but… she was here.

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