Death in the White Room

In the white room, always clean and full of light, Death had made itself at home. It lingered like an unwelcome guest, curling up in the dark recesses behind doors, or lying in wait beneath the bed’s shallow. Its ghastly form remained unseen, its wheezing breaths unheard, yet its presence was unmistakable, marked by the foul stench that clung to the air. It was a scent of old blood mingled with lye, and human refuse tinged with a sharp, lemony undertone. Arthur abhorred the lemon smell most of all — it was a poor parody of the fruit, all the sour and none of the sweet.

“They try to hide the nature of this place, fresh paint over rotting wood,” he said, his gaze drifting to the one dying beside him.

The stranger was no more than a shadow of someone he once knew — a poor artist’s rendition of his sister. Her skin, once golden and kissed by the sun, had turned pallid, marred with patches of purple. Her hair, once a rich brown, full of life and curls, had withered away to a handful of brittle wisps. Arthur had long forgotten the exact shade of his sister’s eyes. Were they brown like mine, or did they favour mother’s green? He wondered but could not recall. He could lean over this sleeping stranger’s body; pry open an eye to see. But this was not his sister, as he would often lie to himself. Yet he was older now than when she first became sick, and this lie seemed harder to believe with each passing day.

“A nurse, the fat one with that little nose, spilled a bedpan in the corridor today,” Arthur said, his voice low and bitter. “Like flies drawn to shit, they swarmed over it to clean before I could see — but I did. Red.” He clutched the cold hand of the stranger. “White little flies… I want to pick the wings off them and watch them struggle… I want to —”  

His words faltered as something arrested his speech. A subtle, almost imperceptible squeeze from the stranger’s hand served to both soothe and silence him. The stranger was listening.

“Was it the cruelty I insinuated, or the profanity that stirred you for a moment, stranger?” Arthur said, a wicked little smile curving his lips, though his eyes remained wide and wanting. He watched her lids, hoping to see them open, to see her well again. Yet, no such miracle could exist; her eyelids remained heavy, puffy, and bruised.

“There is a bit of father in me, you know?” he whispered. “A nastiness…”

Arthur turned to his left, gazing out of the window at the dying day. A thick wall of cloud loomed just above the horizon, its underbelly dyed a deep orange by the setting sun, while the tops blushed pink against the purple sky. A seagull had perched itself on the windowsill, its clueless yellow eyes peering in. Yet, to Arthur, those eyes seemed mocking. The bird seemed to taunt him in silence: I smell the air, fresh and clean, while you languish on your sister’s slow death. With a sudden, powerful flap of its wings, the seagull took off.

A small down feather drifted in, slipping through a crack in the window, landing softly by Arthur’s feet. He bent down to pick it up, but even that slight disturbance of air sent it skittering away, disappearing into the shadows beneath the bed.

It was dark under the bed, where the shadows coiled thick and heavy. Death slumbered there, a patient snake nestled in the tall grass, awaiting an unsuspecting foot to wander too close. Arthur felt the bite, the venom coursing through his veins, carried by the flow of his blood. Sleep claimed him soon after, and not a peaceful dream was had that night.

The stranger sat perched on the window stool, fingers gently pawing at the glass as if yearning to escape. Their white gown, soft and delicate, was adorned with a thousand downy feathers. The moon outside shone as brightly as the midday sun, bathing the world in a clean, silver light. When the stranger turned to face Arthur, familiarity struck. His sister looked at him with knowing yellow eyes and a petulant pout on her full lips.

“You should open the window,” she said, her voice hollow.

Arthur cleared his throat, his voice strained. “Your feathers are too small; they won’t catch the wind. You would fall, like a chick too eager to leave the nest.”

She offered a wan, knowing smile. “These aren’t my wings, silly. My wings are there,” she said, gesturing towards the darkness beneath the bed. “Tucked away in the shadow you try so hard to ignore, despite the smell I know your nose catches.”

“Would you abandon me? Ride the clouds with Death and mocking seabirds, while I remain tethered to the earth with… Father.”

Bang! Bang!

The sound tore through the night, rattling the very bones of the world. The moon fled, hiding behind a curtain of dark clouds. The door at the far end of the room shuddered on its rusted hinges, each violent shake loosening it further. The wood was aged and sodden, swollen with damp that wept from the splintered cracks, leaking a slow, miserable drip.

Bang!

Again, the assault resumed. A fist of stone, a voice of thunder on the other side. The clouds had deepened to a menacing red, pouring rain and spitting lightning. Thunder rumbled across the land, shaking the earth and rattling the windows in their frames.

“I cannot be your shelter any longer,” she whispered, her voice frail and sickly. “I will breathe my last, and the storm will hunt you down. The rain, relentless as it has been to me through the years, will hammer at you with the same fury. See the shadow, and together we shall fly.”

“I am afraid,” Arthur said.

The stranger took Arthur’s hand in hers as he drew near. “This is what a sister’s hand is for,” she said softly. “To hold and be free of fear.”

It was day, a bright blue day with a sky unmarred by clouds, white or grey. The window stood wide open, allowing the fragrance of rain-kissed grass to drift in. Outside, far below, a throng of tiny white flies swarmed.