Runner-up of the Flash Fiction Competition 2020

3rd Prize

Hilary Austin

The Last Visit

I hate hospitals. It’s the smell, that nauseating blend of disinfectant that overpowers vomit, excrement and the depths of human suffering. Today though, there is no smell. Much more bearable somehow.

I head through the main doors and dutifully wait while they check my temperature. Normal. Phew! I thought it was but you never know.

Ward D5 Respiratory Medicine. I don’t suppose they have a ward for suicidal alcoholics.

There you are, in the end bed. You look rubbish; hooked up to all sorts of drips. To be fair you are wheezing and breathless. But what’s new? This is just something else to be added to the long line of self-inflicted illnesses.

‘Hi Steve.’

‘Hi sis.’

Our voices are muffled behind our masks.

‘Here’s the phone charger, hope it’s the right one.’

‘Thanks.’

‘And some reading glasses. These are the only ones I could get.’

I also hand over the bag containing toiletries, clean underpants, jeans and sweatshirt. God knows why I bought all this stuff. Last time it stayed in the bag for months and grew mould under a pile of who knows what in your filthy, mouse infested flat.

‘Thanks sis. I’ll pay you back when I get out of here.’

We both know you won’t.

‘So, what’s the diagnosis?’

‘Apparently I’ve got a chest infection.’

No surprise there. Living amongst all that crap.

‘What happened? I thought you were doing better this time.’

‘Went to the shops. Couldn’t breathe. Panicked I suppose.’

‘So you did … what …three bottles of Vodka. Or was it four? How does that help?’

You shrug.

‘You still smoking?’ It was a stupid question. Of course you are.

‘They’ve given me patches.’

I run out of conversation. It’s all been said before. Many times. I’m out of energy. And patience.

Any compassion long gone. Thank God mum isn’t around to see this again. I swear it was what finished her off in the end.

Visiting time stretches before me. I shift uncomfortably on the hard little chair and gaze at the clock on the wall. The seconds tick by, painfully slowly. We make small talk, and all the time you talk about yourself and how life is unfair, and it’s always someone else’s fault. You don’t ask me how I am, and for once I am grateful.

Visiting time is over. I know it’s against the rules but I slide the mask down, lean over and give you a kiss on the cheek. You look surprised. We never show displays of affection like this. Then the mask is back in place and its time to say goodbye.

I hope I’ve done enough. I don’t have any of the usual symptoms, but the loss of smell and taste, and the results I received this morning confirmed that I have the virus.

I really hope that this will be my last visit.

Author Bio:

I am a self-employed hypnotherapist/counsellor and run a busy therapy centre near Stansted, Essex. I joined The Writers Bureau in 2005 and have had several articles and short stories published, including winning the 2008 Writers Bureau Short Story Competition. I also won a playwriting festival in February 2020. I combine my knowledge and experience of psychology to create complex characters, and my stories are the product of my wild imagination. I am currently working on a radio play, and future projects include writing dark drama for TV.