Tags
creative, death, fiction, flash, flash fiction, short stories, stories, story, The Bed, writing
One bed had been replaced by another, but whilst the first, firm as it was, had been warm and safe, draped in crisp sheets of white, this one, the one on which he now found himself, bore the hallmarks of a table – firm, practical and precise, with a surface designed more for cleanliness than comfort. Despite the anaesthesia, the sedation that rendered his body, his physical being, inert and immobile, he was acutely aware of the movement around him; voices low, measured and controlled, assured in their certainty, each sound filling every inch of the room with unquestionable authority. He was aware too of the gradual slowing of the air which moved gently, peacefully, in and out of his lungs, its diminishing pace echoed by the sound of blood pumping through his arteries, filling his veins, as it eased its ways back to the chambers of his heart.
He could hear one voice more clearly now, a resigned tone, authoritative still, but tinged with a hint of failure: there’s nothing more to be done.
‘So this is it, then,’ he thought.
chrisnelson61 
And the tolling of the church bell began from somewhere in the fog outside…
Nice job, Chris. 😊
Thanks, Michael, I’m pleased that you liked this.