The Day Before Dotty Died

FLASH-365

Монтажная область 1

I get into work. An elderly home; large, sterile, soaked in death. The hall is lined with wheel chairs filled with bones, meat and loose flesh.

A CNA sits nearby, a large Kenyan woman.

“I have to go to the bathroom!” someone calls.

The CNA flips the page on a magazine. “You’ve just been,” she says.

I pass her.

“Morning,” I say. She nods.

I get a few paces past.

“Your turn to take out the smokers.”

I stop. “Yeah, yeah, let me just clock in alright.”

She doesn’t respond.

At the end, Dotty sits, rolled up against the wall, locked. She has two sons, they come on Sundays and take her out to the garden.

“Morning Dotty,” I say.

“Hah!” she squeezes her hands together, turns and twists them.

“What’s wrong Dotty?”

She holds up an old finger, pulls me close. She is missing her two front teeth, the…

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