“I’m sorry. We did…”
“Everything you could. I’m a doctor, you fool. I know the drill.”
“A doctor. And couldn’t even save your wife.”
“I said ‘A doctor. Of course. Stevens. That’s right.’” She laid her hand on his arm, “Would you like one of the…”
“No. I don’t need anyone from this place.” He shook her hand off.
“Truly, Dr. Stevens. I am sorry.”
He turned, knowing there was nothing he could do here, not wanting to see his wife lying still. He had watched how family members acted as they entered the rooms of their deceased loved ones. No, he wouldn’t do that. He’d go home.
“There’s no one waiting for you.”
He jumped. Looking wildly around, he squeaked, “Hello?” cleared his throat and barked, “Who’s there? What do you want?”
The sunset was an impossible pink. Unnatural. Like a child had scribbled with the wrong color crayons. Surreal and slightly unpleasant. It sunk behind perfectly ordinary grey concrete, which made it all the more annoying.
Dr. Stevens wandered through the parking lot trying to get as much distance as possible between himself and the body of his wife. “Dammit!” he squinted, the light dwindling. Where the hell was his car? He roamed until the sky was thoroughly bruised. Deep purple began turning to charcoal.
“You car is by the entrance. Directly in front of the entrance. Where you left it.”
He spun to find no one. Again. “Get away,” he growled.
“You can distance yourself from her, but not from me.”
He walked some more. Around crushed soda cans, over cigarette stubs, through the sliding doors to room 2357.
“Couldn’t keep your distance?” The voice mocked. Too close. Too angry. Too his.
Week 27 Prompt: Distance