DEATH'S WEIGH STATION
OR
THE END OF THE WORLD

BY
ROBERT ADAMOVICH

(This was written during my most recent stay at the Rehab/Living Center)

At first I thought I was in old people's prison. I was soon to find out that I had wandered into a much graver place; the end of the world.

Everyday I rolled around the halls in my wheelchair amongst the dead and the dying, wondering which poor old soul is next to pass away into the afterlife. We were all candidates I realized; the walking dead, (or rolling in my case).

There's Charles, I call him Sparky because he is dependent on an oxygen tank strapped onto his wheelchair and one errant spark would set him on fire. He rolls around with his mouth agape, trying to suck in as much air as he can, along with the artificial oxygen tanks supply of pure oxygen plugged into his nose. He doesn't know which day it is, nor does he really care any more, as long as he has his coffee, meals, cookies and pain pills. Honestly he already looks dead. The change wouldn't be that great.

The ones that are really badly off you never see. They're tucked away in their rooms lying in bed, waiting for the angel of death to finally come knocking on their door and remove them from the misery of their regulated existence. I wish them success in their patience. That may sound cruel, but unless you've been in their shoes or have been forced to watch these people being forced to live, you'd know it's not so cruel. It would be closer to mercy and more compassionate than trying to keep them alive just to make you feel better. The only ones profiting from them staying alive is the nursing center and the doctors.

Occasionally I see a body bag being carted off and placed into a waiting Suburban, (the new hearse). The undertaker comes to fetch his work. At first glance my mind didn't register what I was seeing; a flat gurney without even the thinnest of pads or sheet to protect the person from lying on the steel slab. No pillow or blanket, just a non-descript bag folded on the gurney. Then my brain kicked in. I then understood that the gurney did not come to take away the living or nearly dead away to the hospital, but to cart away the soulless body of another victim of death's weigh station's. The body inside the bag looked small, frail and not even large enough to hold an entire human being; something less than a whole person. Just an empty shell of what had once been a vibrant living being. Does the soul take up space inside of us? Does it add substance to our bodies? I believe it does.

They took our weight today and I thought how bizarre. Are they checking to see whose turn it is at Death's Weigh Station? Here at the end of the world.

THE END

Want to comment on this Prose? Sign up to Edit Red and you will be able to comment on Prose and get access to: Upload your own stories and poems, get readers and their feedback, promote your work...