I walked with death carrying a story written in puncture wounds and incisions marks.
Through the years, my body has been made into a treasure map by doctors, some who have misguidedly declared the three magic words earned to set me free.
“We found it!” They lied.
In their greed, they transform loved ones into coin banks.
A lingering sweet sound comes after each thump of a heartbeat, dead silence, you might hear…
the cure to this painful numbness.
A familiar creaking of the door tolls next judgement.
Am I to hear another “hopefully?”
“We—” but the search was over.
This was a 101-short story that was written as a requirement for my Humanities 1 class. It ended up winning third place overall in a class of 168 students. The story was based on an employee of my mother who passed away after childbirth due to mishandling of her operation. I do not recall what happened to the baby. And the occurrence of huge exploitation here, in the Philippines, in eye care, which ironically led to the blindness of many.
Can you imagine the operation supposed to save/help you end up the killing you?