Writing Sample 2

In the end, they died together.

There’s the spoiler. You see, in every story worth telling, the reader is conditioned to believe that “the hero dies in this one.” But what if the hero didn’t die alone with their dignity, and instead went with the one they loved? What if two heroes die in this one?

So goes the beginning of something very convoluted and yet very beautiful. The heroes here served loyally by the side of three young children and their warrior parents. There’s not much significance beyond knowing that, other than the children were to cause quite some grief to the parents. Growing pains, identity pains; financial and emotional ones, too. Oh they would bicker and resent one another and have some words as the children turned into grownups. Through it all, the heroes never criticized or spoke ill of the family they raised and protected, and often times their presence would go unnoticed. Has anyone fed them today? Look, it’s snowing – oh, they’re still outside, huh, guess they might be cold. But regardless the nights they slept on a hardwood deck outdoors or the rumble in their tummies as they longed for the food they smelled beyond their humble door, they rarely complained or thought any differently. Because they were, after all, just dogs.

What happened next is not easy to relay or receive, but for the sole purpose of properly portraying and honoring them to the end, I spare no details. I watched my brother -my role model in a sense – walk through the metal detector without looking back. I was also mindful of my mother, bleary eyed and waving despite the lack of response, and my father, holding her hand while conceiling his displeasure with the fact that these two minutes would cost him a buck each in the parking garage.
-I think it might be time to take Sheeba in.
Yeah, I knew. I had heard it nonstop for the past month.
-And since we’re not going to the Valley, I think it should be done today.
Oh.
-I can’t see her go another day living like this; it’s time.
I’d heard it time & time again, turned the thoughts over in my head constantly – hell, we even joked about it on a daily basis to hide the pain of their imminent end; and yet for some reason I could no longer see straight. Tears clouded my vision and I pretended to blame John’s departure.
-Okay, let’s go.
My mom began to turn around, still with my dad in tow. And soon I was linking arms with her too.

I knew the drill, knew the procedure. I knew that the toxin had the most beautiful hue of rose to it, how much they drew, and where they kept the catheters. I knew they would direct us into the euthanasia room, third one on the right, and that my babies would be leaving in one hour in thick black trash bags. I also knew I would be expressing vulnerability in a time and place that was inappropriate, for we are trained on how people of medicine don’t have feelings. I had done this before. Except, not exactly this.

Thick deep red drops of blood dripped silently onto the tile floor; Sheeba crouched over it apprehensively, panting slowly as best she could through her constricted airway. I bent down and stroked her fuzzy head, and she slowly peered up from her one eye. I don’t feel very good; I want to go home.

Lady, on the other hand, seemed less aware of her feelings and even less aware of her depth perception. She stumbled through the doorway, circled around the empty waiting room, careened to the left to collide into the bench (which was a good 3 feet out of her way), and proceeded to ram Sheeba out of the way (another foot off). If I drew a map of this erratic route, it would look like a beeline with no particular purpose.


Unfinished Short By April R. Martin circa January, 2011 from April’s archives.