"That was it simply, and you had set your face the other way from it, towards the bauble. you were heading out into an uncertain life, sacrificing the certainty of a life based on death; for what you didn't know, windblown excitements and imaginings that in the humdrum of their actuality might soon get stripped of their sensual marvel." -The Dark, John McGahern

"If your narrator is someone whose take on things fascinates you, it isn't really going to matter if nothing much happens for a long time. I could watch John Cleese or Anthony Hopkins do dishes for about an hour without needing much else to happen." - Bird by Bird, Anne Lamott

I saw a girl die yesterday.

I guess I didn't think it was going to happen. Yeah, she was in bad shape, real bad shape. But she was crying when she came in, and although the crying was out of pain and fear, something in it reminded me of the cry of a healthy baby, of someone who was meant to survive. She was in good hands. People were trained for situations exactly like this.

When she passed away I didn't realize it happened, not right away at least. I stood there and I heard the flatline somewhere floating in the distance of sound, but it seemed so far away, more like the monotonous buzzing of a fly than a death knell. And then there was silence. And the removing of gloves. We were escorted out of the room by a man in a mask and gown. I held my notepaper weakly in my hands. My feet seemed intensely interesting. They moved, I followed. They moved some more, I thought I was going to puke and ruin the little marvel that is feet in motion, body working correctly, ticking ticking, everything well oiled and functioning and oh god someone died.

I had options on this paper, little boxes I was supposed to check off. None of these boxes were things I felt like I could fill out.

She was young. And she cried when she came in, a healthy baby cry.

The doctor made sure we were okay. And what was I supposed to say but yes, and walk away? I didn't want to touch another person ever again, and I couldn't understand why I felt like that. I just knew I had to get far away from that room and that silence and that sickening heavy feeling.

I didn't puke until I got home. It was long and satisfying, emitting from somewhere deep in my gut, so happy to get out of me. I felt tired. I felt the backs of my hands. I looked at the wrinkles on my knuckles, the brown dot near my wrist. Then I ran back to the toilet and puked again.

I thought about home. I thought about my friends. I thought about being alone in the apartment. But mostly I gave deep consideration to how the backs of my hands felt. Slightly dry skin, I'd have to get on that, to go and buy some lotion at Bath & Body or Origins or somewhere.

That night I went on a date. I had fun. I came home and fell into a deep and drug-induced sleep.
I was happy to see the sunlight when I woke up.