The Human Condition

Scott was dead. This was something Jonah knew. His mind had climbed groggily from its uneasy slumber and had come to this conclusion first. True, the mechanical beep beep beep and the relentless whirring of the many tubes and monitors that hooked up to Scott said otherwise. In fact, the thump thump thump of his heart that matched each beep beep beep said Scott was well and truly alive. Comatose, true, but alive.

Jonah considered going back to sleep. Watching a dead man would bring him no comfort. But his neck was stiff from the awkward position he had been slumped in as he slept, and while his mind contemplated death, he would not be able to sleep again. He sat there for some time, until he could no longer take that thump thump thump and that beep beep beep.

A green line flashed across the monitor as a sign of a heartbeat. The line, not yet flat, showed Scott alive. Alive but dead. Dead but alive.

Jonah shifted his legs, restless. It took him a while to tear his eyes from Scott, but when he did he could not bear to look at his friend again. Deciding the best course of action would be to leave, he got up and exited the room. He wandered the halls, aimlessly, until he found the cafeteria. Each room he passed smelled like sickness and blood. In the cafeteria, however, the plastic smell of processed food overpowered anything else. Jonah was grateful. In all, he spent $2.19 on a shitty cup of coffee. He did not think he could stomach anything else.

He took the long way back to Scott's room, not only because he was afraid to return, but also because each blank hallway looked much like the last. A labyrinth of the dying and diseased. If he tried, Jonah could convince himself that the white walls were peaceful, calm. But he did not try. He was much too tired.

It had taken him so long to return to the room that his shitty cup of coffee had turned lukewarm. He took the first sip and grimaced as the tar-like substance coated his teeth. Disgusting. He braced his elbows on his knees, cupped the coffee between both hands and rested his head on the lid of said coffee cup. Had anyone seen him from behind, they might have mistaken him for praying. This thought flitted through his mind, amusing him momentarily. Perhaps he should pray. Equally quickly, Jonah dismissed the idea. It was nothing more than desperation talking.

He stayed curled in this non-praying position for some time before a nurse came in, jerking him from his thoughts. When he first came to the hospital, he had told the nurses that Scott was his brother, and there was no one to expose the lie. In any case, they did bear some passing resemblance and with the oxygen mask and wires and tubes that obscured Scott, it was hard to make a real comparison. Perhaps they knew there was no blood between the two. Jonah suspected the staff might even have pity for him, a thought that made him uncomfortable. He had no need for pity. He was in the room though, so what did it matter? Pride was useless now.

The nurse checked a few things, but Jonah had little medical knowledge and didn't know the purpose of the tests she ran. He decided he didn't want to know the results. As she left with a clipboard in hand, she briefly touched his shoulder. It was meant to comfort and was as fleeting as the flutter of an eyelash. Jonah wished she hadn't touched him.

He grabbed his coffee, which had been unceremoniously deserted earlier. After taking a swig, Jonah wished he hadn't; it was now completely cold. Even so, he drained the cup and crushed it in his palm. He let it clatter to the ground.

He had been still before the nurse's unwanted touch, but now he was not. It was as though she had awoken the pain and fear that he had been stifling. But now. Now. The panic encapsulated him. And what lay in the bed he could not bear to lose. Abruptly he pushed back his chair and stood up. He began pacing, hoping the movement would loosen the tightness in his chest, the heaviness of foreboding. It did little to relieve his restlessness and seemed to only further agitate him. Everything in him was wound tight; each lap made the tension escalate.