Early morning on ward 8B

As we had hoped, my siblings and I have now been distributed within simple reach of all of the patients scattered throughout ward 8B. It has not been without its obstacles. Namely, the numerous hurdles put in place by the constant pressure of sourcing financial gains and support, according to the tired night team of nurses who grumble under their adequate breath, keeping their mouths moving in an effort to stay alert. Regardless, I am pleased that Mr Fletcher can comfortably retrieve my contents from the top of his bedside cabinet.

Early morning sunlight creeps guiltily through the thin blinds, casting a hopeful glow across the hospital beds. Mr Fletcher sits propped up by pillows, staring at nothing but his thoughts. Eventually, he forces himself to lean forward and swings his weakened body like a pendulum to settle into a sitting position on the edge of his bed. He pauses briefly for breath before reaching for me, slowly, to squeeze down the top of my head, gently forcing my liquid solution into his ebony hands. He smears it determinedly over his forearms just as the consultants always advise. He jabs the mixture into the creases between his fingers, their shade only marginally lighter due to the cocktail of medications coursing through his body. Like a surgeon preparing to operate on himself, he doesn’t leave a millimetre of skin de-sanitised. It is true that my presentation is somewhat modest. One could purchase me from their nearest pharmacy. However, I believe that I am one of the most sophisticated sanitisers that will one day evolve into a product that can cure all cancers.

Once done, he remains sitting on the edge of the bed. Having been here for a spell, I can sense his next move. As predicted, he rises and stands, a tall, skeletal being defying every inch of the pain wracking his body. His jaw line is emaciated but firm. His eyes are glassy but stoic. He reaches for the cord beside the blind and pulls at them rabidly, revealing a grey cityscape tinged with fog and sun beams. Sunlight caresses the considerations pulsating beneath his brow. He is too skinny, but there is a weight to his countenance. Since being admitted, he has struck me as a fellow who is undoubtedly aware of his circumstances, but will deal with them accordingly.

He collapses back onto the bed and takes a moment or two to chastise himself under his breath over some private annoyance. He reaches for his smartphone which sits beside me and after a moment smiles to himself. It fills me with pleasure to see that grin. He returns the phone and presses down on my head once more. He moves himself back into a restful position in bed and folds his hands over his lap. He waits. Good man. A courageous soul. This one is a fighter. It is crucial that he does what is required to remain as healthy as possible. No matter what.