1943. Shanghai. A soldier of the Japanese Army happens by a club one night purely out of boredom. What he expects to find are uncouth drunks. He actually meets a beautiful African-American performer by the name of Beatrice. Throughout the next three...
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six
roku
* PLEASE BE WARNED. GRAPHIC DEPICTIONS OF R*PE. UNFORTUNATELY, IT IS A PRETTY COMMON THEME IN THIS BODY OF WORK FOR SAKE OF KEEPING HISTORICAL ACCURACY. DEATH. LANGUAGE. GRAPHIC VIOLENCE AMONG OTHERS ARE ALSO DEPICTED. READER DISCRETION IS ADVISED.*
"Ms. Miller, may I have a word with you?" Following the doctor into the hallway, she gripped her hands tightly behind her. Whatever it was that he was going to say was not good. Her gut just told her so.
"As you know, we've been sustaining the progression of Mr. Matsuda's laryngeal cancer with medication,"
"Yes."
"I regret to inform you that despite this, it has metastasized." The news hit her in the gut.
"It has spread to his lymph nodes. Respectfully, are you aware of what those are?"
"Yes, sir." Nodding, the doctor swallowed and continued grimly,
"With cancer spreading to a person's lymph nodes, the survival rate is less than 7%." Though she remained quiet, her eyes had started to grow teary.
"How..." Clearing her throat, she spoke again, voice stronger.
"How much time does he have?" The doctor, Mr. Williams, had been the family doctor for years and over time had grown to form a bond with everyone, specifically Grandpa.
"At best, Sami...six weeks." He dropped the professionalism, the distraught emotion on his face mirroring hers.
"Thank you for letting me know."
"Of course."
"Does Grandpa know?"
"I just informed him."
"How did he take it?"
"As usual. No response. Just a nod." Her heart began to break into pieces.
"I'll return for my weekly visit next week. Perhaps during that time, we can discuss hospice care."
"Sure." Lifting a hand to her shoulder, he gently squeezed and left her standing in the hallway, closing the door just as she'd begun to cry.
***
Tears wet her cheeks. Grief crippled her and she could not stop shaking. The ride was bumpy and it felt like she'd been in the back of the truck for hours. Inside the dark, others wept and wailed. The stench of vomit and urine filled the space. With a sudden lurch forward, the vehicle stopped. The sound of heavy footsteps traveled around the side of the boxy cabin and at once, the doors to the truck were pulled open. They began to pull and yank them out, ignoring the screams and protests. They spoke in angry harsh Japanese, some of it she understood.
