sjsprWriting

He puffed on his cigar, ceaselessly. I watched him eagerly, expecting some words to come out of that smoke. But he sat still, in his own world, staring at the fumes. From time to time, he’d exchange glances from the grayness in the room to my eyes.

“Aren’t you going to speak to me?” I mumbled.

I blinked hard, and gulped, noticing his cold, void look. He took another puff.

“You weren’t there.”

“I was busy.”

“You should’ve seen it,” he avoided. “You should’ve seen it.”

Lost in the fumes again.

Sighing, I gave up. There was no use at all. He would not utter a single word. I noticed the syringe on his desk, the fresh liquid on the tip of the needle glistening.

“You’re hurting yourself,” I breathed.

“His leg, his leg.”

“What?”

“His leg – They had to cut his leg.”

I threw my head back. “The child?”

“He died…”

The ashes fell on his lap, dampened by a teardrop.

“The blood didn’t stop. It didn’t stop.”

“The child? Answer me.”

He dropped the cigar, and focused directly on my eyes. His were red, lost. I stood there, paralyzed.

“These things happen,” was all I managed to say.

“No. No.” He repeated the words, smacking his forehead. I grabbed his hand, his quavering hand. He shook violently, struggling to be released. “They’re not meant to happen!”

I let him go, and he fell from his chair in a trance. I watched him as he crawled up into a little ball. He convulsed with the images – the disgusting images – of the child he had let die. The cigar he had dropped burned his cheek, but he remained. I was aghast at the sight.

Without any clue as to what to do, I got on my knees next to him, and took the cigar from under his cheek. I placed it on the desk, and went on to place my hand gently on his shoulder. He went on, dozing off on the morphine he had injected into his body hours ago.

“These things happen.”