This is Chapter 12 of my first novel, (work in progress), George and the Rabbit. I won't bother you with the synopsis for now, I think this chapter stands by itself. I have submitted the first two chapters to the opening pages competition, and as a result of the comments gratefully received I am still developing the characters, and also my own voice. That said, I appreciate all comments, good or bad; I appreciate your time in reading my, still immature, scribblings. I hope to post further chapters as I write them.
It had all come back to him. He swallowed hard, he could feel his eyes watering.
He squeezed the parchment thin skin gently. I’m here. I’m here, love.
Oh God! I am so sorry, So sorry. So helpless. So guilty. I wanted her to die. She shouldn’t be like this. A moan left her lips. He didn’t know if she was in pain or not. He had already increased the morphine more than the doctor said he should. He was killing her, he knew that. But she wasn’t going to get better. Nothing he could do would make her better.
Her breathing was laboured. The death rattle the nurses had called it. They cheerfully told him the details, the fluid build up, the weak respiration, the additional burden on the heart. It was a good name. The death rattle.
Her eyes were still open but there was no life to them. They were the colour of milk where once they sparkled blue. All of her had sparkled. He never knew her have a bad day. And George had never had a bad day after he met her. They had married just five months after they met. It’s too soon, his mother had said. I won’t have time to make a good cake. They didn’t wait for the good cake.
They went camping on their honeymoon. It was all they could afford. They came home early after the tent collapsed in the rain. The car got stuck in the field and had to be towed out. And she had laughed about that too.
Why did it have to be you? Give it to someone else. Fucking God. He is either a malicious bastard or he doesn’t exist. George preferred the former. It gave him someone to hate.
She was the only one in the ward. Mr Jenkins wasn’t here when he came in this morning. He could hear the nurses walking quickly somewhere outside in the corridor but the only other sound was her breathing. Her drips had all been taken out. Just a matter of time they said. She doesn’t feel anything. How do they know?
He stroked her arm, but he was so frightened of adding to her pain he stopped. He so wanted to hold her, to hug her, but she was so frail. He had helped the nurses lift her off the bed and had nearly thrown her through the ceiling. She was feather light. As they lifted her she had cried out. George had never heard anyone cry out in so much pain before. I’m sorry honey. They made me do it. He hadn’t helped again and just stood helpless at the end of the bed. It was them doing it love, not me. I didn’t hurt you. I would never hurt you.
He had always thought tumours were heavy. They should be heavy. Why was she so light, what had happened to her? Where had everything gone? It was as if the thin white smock she wore was pushing her body down, making her breathing more difficult. He stared at her. He knew every inch of her, but he did not recognise her now. He remembered the first time they had made love. He waited in bed, scared, excited. She came in from the bathroom, her body wrapped in a towel. She tried to get into the bed with the towel still wrapped round her, but as she turned off the light the towel slipped. She stood frozen before him, naked. And there was that giggle. Oh, how he loved that giggle. Every joy in the world was encapsulated in it. He touched her skin, it was soft and smooth and warm.
The tears ran down his face. He wiped them away, he should be strong. He needed to blow his nose but he didn’t want to let go of her hand. He wanted her to know he was there, would always be there. He tried to reach his hanky, but it was in the wrong pocket. He pulled it out and his change fell on the floor. He blew his nose, once, twice, and then tried to fold his hanky to find a dry bit. He blew again. He tried to put the hanky back, but gave up the contortions and left it on the bedside table.
A nurse came in. “Everything O.K.?” She checked the morphine pump and left. Everything O.K.? Yeah, everything’s great.
“Do you need a hand?”
“No everything’s O.K.”
She came upstairs anyway and burst into laughter as she looked at the massive hole in the wall.
“You do know the shelf fits on the wall, not in it?” she said through tears of laughter.
“It’s not my fault, it’s these plasterboard walls. I told you we should have got someone to do this.”
“You’ll be fine. When the shelf is up no-one will see it.” She was still laughing. But the shelf was still up. It even had books on it. And no-one could see the hole.
Something was different. There was no sound. He could hear the nurses still walking briskly in the corridor. But in the room there was no sound. He had lost her.
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