They Will Let Him Know

 

 

Sleek corridors, the windows long gone. Around a corner, a cool inhuman room. To the right of the bed is the hospital’s equivalent of a dessert tray: cylindrical containers, a vial of clear liquid, a long syringe. “Relax,” the doctor says. “There will be more pressure than pain.” And there is—a positive sign, or maybe something close. 

His cells are bottled, sealed, and labeled for a lab in an adjacent state. He imagines them the next day shuddering on a shelf inside a crowded fridge, the ominous thump of tires against pavement below. “Where are we going?” they cry aloud. “What could be wrong?”    

At the parking kiosk, he decides to ask for help.  

“You ready for the holidays?” the attendant wonders, inserting his card, plopping buttons with a fist. 

“No.” 

“Tell me about it.” 

Tempting—but he’s surrendered enough of himself today. 

“Would you like a receipt?”  

“No. Thanks.” 

The attendant smiles. “Then you’re good to go!” 

He heads to the car and corkscrews to the surface. At the exit, pursed lips swallow his card like a pill. The gate rises, and he crawls into the sunny December morning, which will last precisely as long as it’s able. 

 

  Michael Cocchiarale is the author of the novel None of the Above (Unsolicited, 2019) and two short story collections--Here Is Ware (Fomite, 2018) and Still Time (Fomite, 2012). His creative work appears online as well, in journals such as Fictive Dream, Pithead Chapel, Fiction Kitchen Berlin, and Ovunque Siamo.