I live alone in the corner cell, in the corner cell, on the outskirts of hell. They bring me a pan for under my ass, and a looking glass, showing me things I’d rather not see. But I can’t look away and I’ll never be free.
The ghost in my room steals my things, my mementos, and rings. Ding. Ding. Ding. The one with the pills comes at night, sings under her breath. I smell her intent. It smells of death.
Once I made a deal with a clever man. One hundred more years was the miracle plan. Cancers and ailments of heart, none were mine; then years piled up, and I paid with brain and spine.
It’s still so long before I die in my corner cell, in my corner cell on the outskirts of hell.
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Marjorie Grendle, who’d long ago written poems for Reader’s Digest, stares at the greasy paisley wallpaper as the words run through her, prayer-like, song-like, mantra-like, a wheel of nonsense perpetually spinning within her skull until the medicine renders her blank.
Around her, other resident senior citizens, the oldest of which is 40 years younger than she, solve puzzles, knit, watch TV or chit-chat. Nobody goes within ten feet of the crone mumbling at the wall.
Marjorie’s money is depleting quickly, along with the patience of her kin, who resent the slow exsanguination of a fortune that allowed this spinster to cling to life with desperate claws for an extra 50 years, with 50 left to go.
Today, her favorite Great-GrandNephew comes for his weekly visit. He sneaks a ready-to-eat Jell-O cup past the front desk. While there is nothing forbidden about Jell-O—no dietary or other rules to be broken—everyone who works in the home denies Marjorie small pleasures as punishment for being as unnatural and horrifying as an exhumed mummy left outside the sarcophagus for all to watch crumble.
“Let’s take you to the garden today,” Gerald says, slipping her sugar-free lime Jell-O and a plastic spoon before wheeling her out of the dayroom. She’ll struggle to hold the spoon, so Gerald will wind up feeding her as usual. Nonetheless, she enjoys holding the items, sporting a demented lopsided grin at the idea of being naughty.
Gerald stoically rolls his Great-GrandAunt down the hallway. His cheap suit reflects the bright fluorescent ceiling lights as they pass other seniors, who either avoid her visage altogether, or gawk. Several make noises of protest at her very existence.
Well, it can’t be helped, Gerald muses.
“It’s a lovely day, Aunty Madge. Spring flowers are in bloom and the snow is almost gone.” He glances down at her balding head. Doesn’t seem fair that she’s got slightly more hair than he does. Ah well, God bless her.
The garden door is closed. He must decide whether he’ll back her over its threshold or reach forward to open the door with one hand and jam her forward, hoping the door doesn’t leave a nasty bruise on her legs. Either way, it doesn't matter. Bless her heart, she’s impervious. He touches the large silver crucifix hanging around his neck for good luck, then leans down to her tissue paper ears and shouts, “I’m going to turn you around.”
As he spins the wheelchair, Great-Aunty Madge bangs her bone sticks on the wheelchair arms, and in a voice much louder than one would imagine a woman weighing 75 pounds could muster, she croaks, “I live alone in the corner cell, in the corner cell, on the outskirts of hell…!”
Her Jell-O tumbles to the floor.
Subsequent outcries from residents in the hallway fade as the door snicks shut.
She won’t need her treat today, Gerald decides, steering her onto the concrete path that winds through the lush grounds. He ignores her squeaks of protest at the lost Jell-O, instead marveling at the beauty of the eucalyptus and how the oak trees mingle with pink camellias and yellow hibiscus. These smells and colors are the truest evidence of God.
“What’s the poem, Aunty? Say the poem.”
A brief blankness settles on her face before the watery eyes regain focus. She clears her throat and recites, "Snow waters the soil and nurtures the flowers. The sky cries happily in warm sudden showers. Flowers lift their faces to drink His sun, singing ‘Praise to Him, praise to Him, Spring has begun!’”
“Good, Aunty Madge. You were always such a fine poet.” In his heart, he wondered if “Him” referred to one of the pagan demons she worshiped.
Nodding a ‘good morning’ to the pair of orderlies wearing scrubs smeared with dirt, Gerald turns left onto a smaller path by the giant rosemary bush.
“I live alone in the corner cell—”
“See the angels in the sky, Aunty Madge?” Gerald points to the murder of crows circling above. Madge blinks, cringes.
Gerald continues to speak of the skies and angels, of the perfumed breeze and feathery clouds while navigating her towards the awaiting freshly dug hole.
Next to it stands a preacher man. The two orderlies grab their shovels.
Angel song fills Gerald’s ears as he kisses his crucifix, detaches it from its chain, and presses the button on Christ’s forehead. A metallic whoosh accompanies the sharp blade springing from the cross’s base. “Oh my, look! More angels!”
Marjorie peers up at the bodies circling above and shivers. Their shadows prevent the sun from warming her skin.
“Love you, Aunty Madge.”
Clusters of happier images fill her—of travels and romance, sunshine through pine trees, a crisp piece of paper and sharp pencil for her prose. She feels the slice through her skin, but no pain. Liquid gushes down her chest, warming her again.
As she tumbles into darkness, her endless song culminates with a final refrain.
I signed in blood with the clever man, who scared away my germs, except now the contract's gone and lost, and I’ve forgotten all the terms.
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