So It Is Written

Maybe I should have been a director? Cinematography should have been my thing. I'm on the phone with the doctor and I close my eyes. The words drowning out in echoes behind me. "It's your choice. I cannot guarantee anything, but our chances are very good that this could end it, finally."

I'm walking through a long dark corridor and the voice echoes behind me. There's Jason's voice screaming his rants "I got to go to class!!!" 

Dr Hoenig: "1-2 years recovery."

Dr. Selman: "you have a very difficult decisions to make."

 I look around and see no one but I hear everybody.

I stop at the end of the hall and enter a dark room. The monster from Insidous is in there. I know he is. I can feel him. I walk to an alter dimly lit by candles in various shapes and sizes. The voices continue and more join in. Laughter and screams mix in. 

I know what has to be done and I am trying not to break down as I do it. I take the dirty tarnished knife sitting next to a long scroll with words written in a language I don't understand. Words that are binding and forever and no matter what I do now I will never take back.

I cut my wrist and watch the syrupy red stuff ooze out of my vein. It's dark and rich and symbolic of the blood I will lose now. There will be no children for Jason. 

With my other hand I dip my finger into the fountain at my wrist and press it to the parchment. Slowly, methodically and deliberately writing each letter.

I just signed the deal in time to wake up in reality to answer the doctor's question:

"So do you want to give him the Cytocin or not?" Dr Vargas asked me.

For the first time in a long time. I was able to say it with conviction:

"Yes. Give it to him."