2 Weeks Gone

2 Weeks Gone

I quit my job two weeks ago. After thirty-four years of bedside nursing, I just couldn’t take it anymore. Healthcare is no longer the profession I love because instead of caring about patients and their families, we as nurses are forced to care about computers, charts, and profits. Frankly, I am sick to death of it all. Finally, two weeks ago yesterday, I snapped when my boss added one more responsibility I didn’t have time to worry about. I didn’t say anything this time. I simply handed her my badge, said, “I’m done,” and walked out. Now there is just one small problem with my holier-than-thou tactic. I haven’t told my wife.

Every day for the past two weeks I have been terrified of what she would think. I can hear all her questions, “How are we going to pay the bills? Why would you do this and not talk to me first? What are your plans?” How can I answer? What could I possibly say to justify my rash decision? I have no idea. So I don’t think about it. Instead, every evening I dress in my scrubs and leave the house, drive to the hospital, and sit in the parking lot. We have the app allowing us to view each other's location, so I must be careful. She can never suspect anything is wrong.

I’ve always wanted to be an author. Unfortunately, I am also spineless with no self-confidence in my abilities. The thought of not knowing when or from where my next paycheck will come terrifies me which caused me to settle on a “real job” my entire adult life. Working in a hospital for over three decades made me very complacent and mostly forget my dreams. Every day I felt as if something was missing, something I was supposed to be doing. But not anymore. Two weeks ago, I decided that no matter what I must do, I am going to prove to my wife, and more importantly myself, that I can succeed and make this dream a reality. So here I am, sitting in my truck, writing all the stories locked in my head for all these years.

It started with fantasy short stories that flooded onto my screen with such realism I could touch every mythical creature and feel in my soul the clang of sword on armor. Military sci-fi was next with heart-stopping action so compelling I would flinch at every explosion I wrote. Romantic fiction then spilled from my fingers, so alluring, sensual, and erotic that each word flowed over my skin as a lover's touch. It amazed me how fast I discovered this innate ability to convey the images pouring freely from my imagination. Hugo, here I come!

Each morning, I would come home and act as if it was just any other day. I was proud of myself for what I had accomplished but terrified she would see in my eyes the depth of my deceit. But I must keep it up just a while longer. Once I publish these incredible new stories I will confess. Until then, I will leave, write, return home, shower, sleep, and repeat.

I once read a story where a man killed another and hid the body under his floor. The man eventually went insane thinking everyone could hear a beating heart coming from his floor. I now understand his torture. A few days into my rouse, I began to feel unclean. I would take off my scrubs to shower and notice every smell that had become so familiar after all these years. It was as if I had been working in the hospital all night and not simply sitting in my truck. No amount of soap could purge these scents from my body. And the noises. Alarms, moans, gossip, grief. It all felt surreal. I finally freed myself of this noose around my neck, yet it keeps its hold and I feel I can never escape. How much longer must I suffer before I can leave it all behind? The unnatural assault on my senses does not limit itself to my waking hours. When I am finally able to sleep, the visions become stronger. Vivid dreams of a past life I no longer want to experience. I hear my coworkers mumbling, wondering if I’m ok. Why would I dream such things? Yet the dreams are so real. Each day I wake and feel more drained than after a full shift. What is wrong with me? I obviously can’t discuss this perpetual nightmare with my wife because then she will know. All my lies and self-loathing will be for nothing. I can’t let her find out yet! I’m so close!

Yesterday as I slept, my grandmother appeared. She had the most beautiful voice I have ever heard and used it often to sing me to sleep when I was a child. Now she is here, right here, in front of me! And I know this song she sings. When I was young, it was a lullaby. But now I know its true meaning. “Ghost Riders in the Sky” is such a beautiful song when the naivety of youth clouds your ears. Now the melody whispers to me just as it did when she sang it all those years ago. And it haunts me. But it must be a dream. My grandmother died over 40 years ago. She can’t be here now. So I blink her away.

None of that matters though because it is the last night. Sitting here in my truck I will finalize all my work and tomorrow I will send it out into the world. I know what I have written and it is pure, silky prose unlike anything ever written. Publishers will fight over me. Oh, they will all beg for the honor to represent me. I can see it now. A literary unknown suddenly basking in the spotlight of fame. No man, woman, or child will forget my writings because once read, they will forever be embedded on their soul.

I must have fallen asleep once or twice. I heard several people walk by my window murmuring gossip about this or that. A couple of times I saw headlights through my closed eyelids, and they scared me back to consciousness. I know I must be careful. What if I were to fall into a deep sleep? She would catch me and then she would know. Or I’d come home late and try to lie about where I’d been. I know I can't outright deceive her, not face to face. She would know and I’d be caught. Just a little longer!

Even as I am contemplating how important it is to stay on track, I must have dozed off again. I can hear more people now. They are gathered just outside my truck, but I don’t understand what they’re saying. The windows are up and their voices are unclear and distant; it is too dark to see their faces. Why the sudden interest? Why are they gathered here? I’m so close. Just a couple of more hours and we can live off royalties for the rest of our lives. So close now!

And then the inevitable occurs. The one thing I have been dreading for two solid weeks just materialized. I hear her voice! She has found out! I don’t know or care who betrayed my secret but now she is here, just outside my window. I try to melt into the seat and become invisible. Maybe, just maybe, if I stay perfectly still and quiet enough, she will believe I am not here. Just a couple of more hours! How did this happen? I was so close! Then I feel the ultimate dread. Somehow, some trick I’m not aware of is allowing her to open my window. Her voice is clearer now, but I am still uncertain of what she’s saying. Oh God! She thinks I betrayed her! She won't understand that I was doing this for us, for our future! Oh God! what have I done?

Her voice starts to clear. Through a soup thick fog, I begin to hear her words, but I still don’t comprehend. She’s not mad, not even slightly upset. This can’t be right. I am so confused! What is she saying? Concentrate. Focus on the words. Just listen. “Babe, can you hear me? Babe. Please don’t be scared. You’re still on the ventilator. You were in a bad accident two weeks ago, but they are trying to let you breathe on your own. Babe, just concentrate on your breathing.” Oh my God! How cruel the universe to punish me this way! I have finally realized my dream and yet the noose remains tighter than ever. I will never be allowed to escape this hell.