Near But Not Enough By Benjamin James Spurlock (MV Swydersky Remix)

 

 

Outside the rain came down.

A wall of endless white noise.

Footsteps on the sidewalk.

Hurry.

Anywhere dry.

In one room a woman screams.

Louder.

And louder.

“Excuse me… Sir. Do you have any Tylenol? My head hurts.”

Outside, a joyless dance speeds past; cars maneuvering around one another, desperate to get home. 

Observing from the fifth floor:

Screams, questions, and fluorescent lights accented by the darkness of night.

 Inside the flurry, a tireless tapping.

A lone elderly woman stands with her back to the wall, glassy eyes absent of life. Not staring at anything.

Almost all the old folk have been put back into their rooms.

Almost.

Repeat.

Screams.

Louder.

And LOUDER.

Transforming into a gurgle.

“Excuse me… Sir. Do you have any Tylenol? My head hurts.”

No one will come to her aid.

The nurses, inhuman, more concerned with the remaining time on their shifts and lukewarm cups of coffee in styrofoam.

 

Me.

In the dining room.

Mop head moving back and forth.

Back and forth.

Thinking about a dead MP3 player, and the walk home.

 

A slight pause.

 

The lone elderly woman with glassy eyes absent of life notices him.
 

Me. 

“Excuse me… Sir. Do you have any Tylenol? My head hurts.”

She no longer has her back to the wall.

“No, you have to ask an LNA.”

Dead MP3 player.

“I asked somebody. But, I’m not sure where they went.”

“I’m sure they’ll be back soon.”

The walk home.

 

My answer doesn’t register.  She looks confused. Off.

A chair. She needs a chair. 

Slowly, very slowly her limbs drag forward, muscles straining with every effort. Hands shaking grasp the chair’s arms. Finally, her weight finds relief.

I stand still, watching.

Observing.

             Forgetting the most important details instantly.

“Have you seen my daughter? She was supposed to visit me today.”

“No. I’m sorry.”

But not really.

            

…

“I’m not sure where I am.”

Either am I.

…

“I’m sorry. I can’t help you. I have to go clean another floor,” but she doesn’t hear me.

 Her head turns away back towards the wall, eyes relax. 

Lost.

Alone.

She rubs her shaking hands against her temples in little circular motions and mutters, “My head hurts.”

Slowly i push my cart past the sparse rooms and the nurses’ station. I walk toward the elevator doors, and the lone elderly woman with glassy eyes absent of life lets out another scream. I make a left at the elevators, and down the adjacent hallway. Looking out the fifth floor’s windows at the sidewalk below, I feel a slight pressure inside the frontal lobe, which turns into a sharp, sullen pain. I turn around and walk back to the nurses’ station.

 

“Hey, my head hurts. I was wondering if anyone has some Tylenol? Feels like I’m in the process of getting a headache.”

 

One of the nurses, a forty year old soccer mom, starts digging through her black leather purse and pulls out a small sandwich baggie filled with round orange/brown pills.

“Sorry hun, I don’t got any Tylenol. But here’s some ibuprofen. Hope it helps.”

“Thanks.”

 

The shitty thing is, it didn’t.