The Old Man (Last Story)

From the Corridor I could hear the sounds of groans and strong coughing. I walked in, I don't know why. Like any hospital room a depressive smell attacked me even before I've passed the threshold. On the bed there was an old man, old in the full sense of the word. He looked terrible. His eyes were red, the remaining of his white hair was loosening on his skull, and his wrinkles were so deep it almost seemed as if a sculptor hand engraved them. He noticed me and immediately placed a pair of glasses on his face. He looked irritated.

"Now what"? He barked at me.
"I just…"
"Blood you took, stool you took, urine you took. You have shoved tubes and tools to every single hole in my body' what now?!"

We were both silent.
It was evident in him that he noticed my embarrassment.
"I don’t work here" I finally muttered.
Now he seemed interested.
"Do I know you?" he distorted his skinny face, making an effort to remember. I saw the remaining of might in his face when he made this effort. He looked straight into my face; it seemed as if he was trying to pierce the wall of haze that surrounded him, to gain a moment of absolute clarity, to remember.

I helped him.
"We don't know each other, I don't know why I came in here, I'm leaving now."

"Where can you go? Come sit for a bit".