Zena's entry:
Unknowing is innocence. While I don’t know I have hope. I dawdle on the way home,
stoop to pick up an acorn, wonder why there are so few cars parked here, feel my shoe
rubbing. The sky is cloudy blue, the sun is warm, birds are singing, the world holds
promise. I like this hope, this optimism. How can the news be bad? But farther on, the
pavement’s cracked, the gutter full of paper, the bushes wilting. How can it be good news?
Decay is all around, the world mocks my hope. Every small mark and rough edge shouts it.
I know the test results must arrive soon, today may be the day. We’ll know what illness
he has, if it’s the dreaded one. I breathe in deep draughts of blameless air. My legs are
trembling.
Music floats from an open window, beautiful notes lifting my spirits. Or are they
consoling notes, lamenting the gloom to come? A wind sifts the trees, every leaf quivering
as if dancing to the tune. Beyond, the sky slides past, hugely drifting, a vast backdrop
to the marionettes. Do they shiver with anticipation, or fear? Or are they blithely
ignorant, moving to a rhythm of life which I’m unable to hear? They flicker and twitch,
the sky glides, my feet are heavy, but soon I must arrive. Soon I will know and the leaves
will be still. The gliding will cease and all will stand still as the knowing comes to me.
Whether tomorrow birds will sing through bright dancing leaves, or dusty papers blow in
the gutter, only the me beyond the knowing knows.
Chris's entry:
Blood on the hands, grey in the beard, the world at The Trial; but now, Judge and
jeerers have all left.
There's a clock on the wall. Bismall’ah, it’s stopped! In defiance, it clicks
loud in his cell, one more second towards... They can't leave me here. I'm their
leader.He glares up and the shoulders straighten briefly, the jaw sets firm, his
stare a demand that formerly (another life) caused panic-trapped minions to try and guess
his expression, jump the right way. But there is no-one here, only Time, and Time will not
obey him. He is not used to defiance, he needs the smell of fear. The clock ticks again
and mocks his impotence. ‘You, to whose tune so many danced, you will now dance to mine’,
it seems to say.
The shoulders slump. Sweat forms on the deeply-lined brow. (What if - ?) He
closes his eyes and sees the black robes, the contempt on the shrouded face, and he is
sudden rage. How many judges has he had killed for giving a wrong verdict? Dozens. Now
HE is judged - he who held the power of life and death over so many. Death. His teeth
chatter in a sudden panic. Immortals can't die.
Unseen behind him stand the thousands, turning, swaying as one each time he fearfully
eyes the clock. They too wait, but without fear, without apprehension; without life.
They stand and watch and cry “Guilty!”. They have come and they know.
The hairs on his head are all counted. The clock ticks once more and a small bird
falls out of the sky.
Clare's entry:
I perch on my chair outside his consulting room, my gaze focussed on the door
handle…. how much longer? Do I really want the truth, whatever it is? Yes, of course I do.
And yet ….. I read an article this week about the “nocebo” effect - tell somebody they
have only months to live and it becomes a self-fulfilling prophecy. But it won`t be like
that, it will be good news, it has to be. My stomach is churning, my palms are sweating,
God, it is so hot in here. I feel sick. Rivulets of sweat trickle down the back of my
neck and I run a shaking hand under my short curls to let it evaporate. But just raising
my arm is still painful, a reminder. My mouth is desert dry.
Suddenly, voices, and the door handle moves. I jump even though I think I`m ready.
The door opens, he comes out with another patient, shakes her hand, bids her farewell.
I receive a brief glance, a nod, a “With you in just a moment.” And he disappears back
behind the door. How can he do this to me?
I review my “what ifs” for the millionth time. The joyous possibility of remission,
if the chemo has worked. The prospect of more gruelling treatment if it hasn`t, but at
least another chance. But if he says there is no more they can do, then I will have to
reassess everything.
The door opens again. I scan his impassive face. Not a flicker. He steps back, gesturing
me forward.
“Do come in. So sorry to keep you waiting”.
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