Ward 7B
She's early today. I know it's her; the soft pad, pad of her feet on the polished hospital floor are now as synonymous with her as her bright laugh or kind face, and the latter is now worthless to me. Amazing things, footsteps, for telling people apart. The nurse is easy; the crisp_clip-clop_ of her hooves on the floor tells me better than anything else that I am about to be led out of bed and washed, and given pills, and told that 'it's going to be alright' when it's not.
I'm lucky, because this floor is just perfect for listening to footsteps. The floor is vinyl, they tell me, and the surface is just hard enough so the footsteps are clear, but not so hard that all the footsteps muffle into one big wall of white noise. Certain people leave different footsteps, too. A heavy person, or someone with pads, will have a softer and lower pitched footstep than the sharp click-clack of an avian's claws, or the clippity-cloppity of an equine's hooves.
It doesn't really matter with her, though. I would know if she were there regardless of whether she made sound or not, or even if her sweet scent were masked by the dreadful stinging antiseptic they sometimes cover my vision with to try and contain the infection. I don't want the antiseptic; I've told them, and they still don't listen. It stings like hell and lingers for ages, and if it doesn't work I'll have died in pain, rather than in comfort. It also wreaks havoc with my nose; I've told them this, too, but they don't believe me. They don't believe me because they don't have to lie in this bed, day in, day out, listening for footsteps and waiting for her. My nose is now much worse than it was; I know it is. I used to be able to tell my children apart in an instant, now I have to guess them as much from the pitter-patter of their footsteps as from their scents.
Rachel had the fragrance of sugared almonds, which strode before her like a herald, who announced her arrival into every room with the greatest ceremony and respectability. Alex always carried the damp, earthy smell of mud around with him, evidence of his last football or rugby match, or, if there was a tiny hint of blood, (not necessarily his own), his last play-fight with the canine pups in the village. No matter how many washes She gives him, Alex's earthy scent shines through, completely undaunted, within the hour. On the other hand, Sarah's scent is distinguishable from its subtlety. While Rachel's sugared almonds roll out the red carpet and Alex's muddy smell bounces into the room bursting with energy, Sarah's crisp, fruity fragrance is content to sidle in and to sit quietly in the corner, allowing her more boisterous siblings to have their fun and games, before she tiptoes up to my bed in her quiet manner, and sits by me.
I suppose it is sad, in a way, that I know so much about these other people, their scents, their footsteps and their conduct, and yet have done so little to better myself. It hardly needs saying that the joys of reading and watching programmes on TV are forever closed to me, and it is difficult for me to even listen to music on my own, because of my inability to pick my own CDs. Once, I had picked up an album that I had been told was by David Bowie. I listened to the CD for a while, and then fell asleep. When I awoke, I found that somebody had moved the CD player to where I couldn't reach it, and so I was forced to listen to David Bowie for five hours straight. To this day, I find it difficult not to wince whenever I hear two bars of 'Ziggy Stardust'. Quite often, then, I just lie in bed, waiting for two things: Her daily visits, and my death.
I solemnly believe that if it weren't for knowing that She was always just around the corner, and if She wasn't there to comfort me, the darkness would surely claim me forever. This place, with its endless announcements over the PA, its rough staff, and the terrible medicine they 'treat' me with, is like a sort of hell for someone in my condition.
But when She enters, all hell is forgotten and vanishes in an instant. I hear her pad, pad softly up to my bed and take my hand, allowing me to use that last great sense still open to me: touch. Even though I cannot see her face, I challenge anyone who has not held her hand and felt her soft fur to deny that she is truly one of the most beautiful women alive, and that She is Mine.
We share an embrace, each so tender as though it might be our last, and indeed, that is the fear that lurks in my head through all my hours of lonely darkness. But when we are together, and when we finally kiss, I know that on that night I may die a happy wolf, and when we finally part, we tell each other the two words which we know will carry us through to the end and beyond, no matter what it brings.
"My love."