Mercy

I don't know how long I've been stuck in this bed, how long these machines and tubes have been keeping me alive. Pain, depression, and humiliation have distorted any real concept of time; they want to keep me alive, but I don't know why. I am not the same person I was before the stroke, before the cancer, before the frequent trips in and out of the hospital, before they left me here to live. I just want to go home, to see my husband again, to see my parents, to see my Savior.

I am too weak to move, too frail to force myself up and unhook these machines. My great grandson visits me everyday, he tells me what is happening in the outside world, his world. To be young again! I try to tell him that I am in pain, that I want to go, that I want to be free.

One day he walks into my room; he is wearing a white shirt and white shorts. He strokes my hair and whispers in my ear "Gam-gam, you're free." He reaches behind the machines and unplugs my life support from the wall. The lights and beeps shut off; with a flick of his supple wrists, he has slayed my captors. As I close my eyes for the last time, I know that he is my Savior. I know that I am finally free.