Untitled Flash Fiction

To the hospital. Over and over and over again. He was sick of it. He was falling apart and they kept trying to stitch him back together, like sewing water. There wasn’t a lot he really paid attention to when the doctors told him about what was happening. “Autoimmune” blah blah… “skin cells” blah blah blah.

“Just let me go home.”

Well-intentioned people on the street, when he’d pick up a bite to eat on the way home, would show sympathy or interest.

He tapped his card on the receiver as the barista would chime, “Been getting into fights, tough guy? Haha.”

“No, just disabled,” he said, sliding it back into his wallet, and meeting the barista’s taken-aback gaze.

No one expects him to tell the truth. But it is what it is. Why cover it up?

“Oh uh. Well I hope you get better.”

“I wont.” Which was also true. “Oh uh. Can you double cup this?”

With his extra cup, hands now safe from the heat of the macchiato, he returned on his path home. His home was a little musty. All the cushions and covers he kept around to ease the aches retained dust, but the apartment was otherwise well-organized. Light filtered through the fog of dust particles and highlighted the embroidering the curtains, but making his computer screen invisible. It was still on from last night, when he had to drop everything to go to the hospital once again. His home was right where he left it, though. Always ready to welcome him back.

He shut the curtains to let the screens light illuminate the room instead, and he sat down at the desk.

“Hey I’m back.” He pressed enter.

“Oh good! I’m glad you’re okay.”

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