Sea Smoke

A Short Story by Duncan Craig

(Takes an average of 7 minutes to read)

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The ruthless, yet frustratingly catchy rhythm of the hospital machines (beep-beep-buzz-whoosh, beep-beep-swirly-swoosh on loop) gave away his location as he awoke before his eyes adjusted to see where he was.

His depression,

its own physical entity inside him like a thick tumor, also woke up and released a vague longing to greet the sterile room in the same way the brain might release serotonin to greet a loved one. He’d been lying here for two weeks and always woke up with hope that he was somewhere else. The realization hit hard each time that he was not well enough to be anywhere else. It felt like his life was dripping away from him at the same pace that the saline bag was dripping it back in. He wondered which would run out first.

Crow’s feet and smile lines around his eyelids still showed evidence of long-gone happy times, but his eyes were useless. They’d had trouble focusing for the last decade, but now they’d declined to the point where his glasses, wherever they were around here, could barely skim the fat off his surroundings. Now, all he could see was a blurriness like a fog around the room.