Here’s my second round entry into the NYC Midnight Flash Fiction Contest last year. Again, the rules are 1,000 words, 48 hours to write an original work of fiction based on prompts for GENRE, SETTING and RANDOM OBJECT.<\/p>\n
GENRE: Mystery (which I’d never written before)
\nSETTING: Physical rehabilitation facility
\nRANDOM OBJECT: Fried chicken (What is it with me and food?)<\/p>\n
MR. BELARDI<\/p>\n
\u201cMr. Belardi, wake up. It\u2019s time for lunch.\u201d<\/p>\n
A yawn stretched across the patient\u2019s scratchy patch of white stubble.<\/p>\n
\u201cAnna?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cNo, it\u2019s Letty. Brought your favorite \u2014 fried chicken.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWho the hell are you?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cLetty, the day shift nurse. Same as this morning. Same as yesterday. Let\u2019s get you upright so you can eat. Kevin\u2019s gonna work on your core today.\u201d<\/p>\n
Letty freed his left hand from the Velcro restraint and repositioned the bulky sling protecting his right arm. As the bed cranked into its upright and locked position, she pushed the tray table across his lap.<\/p>\n
\u201cWhere\u2019s Anna?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cNot here.\u201d The forty-something black woman busied herself with the triptych of charts and monitors behind his head.<\/p>\n
\u201cWhat am I supposed to do with this?\u201d He flicked the plastic spoon with his good thumb.<\/p>\n
\u201cUse it for the mashed potatoes. You can eat the drumstick with your hand.\u201d<\/p>\n
The purple starburst of bruise that surrounded his right eye contorted into an angry scowl. He stabbed the spoon into the sodden white blob.<\/p>\n
\u201cCan I at least have a goddam fork and knife?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cNot after what you tried with Ben last night.\u201d The nurse had a good thirty pounds on him \u2014 none of it fat. She wasn\u2019t afraid of a scrawny, ex-mechanic with a broken wing. \u201cYou watch that language around me, sir.\u201d<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
Outside the door of Room 418, a gold star identified Mr. Belardi as a fall risk.<\/p>\n
A red stop sign warned visitors of his disposition.<\/p>\n
As Letty emptied the urinal and checked the motion sensors tethered to his gown, the old man started to flop his legs beneath the white starchy sheets.<\/p>\n
\u201cMy feet!\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cWhat\u2019s wrong with your feet?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cThey\u2019re burning \u2014 I have diabetes!\u201d He jerked his leg against the restraint in ratcheting agitation. \u201cMy left foot! It\u2019s on fire!\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cOK, OK. Calm down.\u201d<\/p>\n
She held her breath, raised the sheet and unfastened the Velcro strap on his right foot. Untended talons of yellow toenail jutted from the gray twigs of flesh.<\/p>\n
\u201cI said my left<\/em> foot, goddammit!\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cThere\u2019s nothing wrong with your left foot, Mr. Belardi, and don\u2019t use that language with me.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI\u2019ll say whatever the hell I want, you bitch!\u201d He spat out the words with flecks of potato and half-chewed peas. \u201cWhen the police come back, I\u2019ll tell them what you\u2019ve done to me!\u201d<\/p>\n Dr. McCormick and his bleach-blond hair jutted around the curtain.<\/p>\n \u201cThat\u2019s enough, Mr. Belardi.\u201d The title in front of Rob McCormick\u2019s name commanded immediate respect from a patient that was old enough to be his grandfather. \u201cLetty, I need to see you.\u201d<\/p>\n The plastic sippy-cup smashed against the doorframe as she followed him out. Mr. Belardi\u2019s left arm worked just fine.<\/p>\n \u201cDetective Perry is coming back today,\u201d Dr. McCormick said. \u201cHold off on his next round of Percocet.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cHe\u2019s in a lot of pain.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYeah, he\u2019s a pain in our ass, but he has to be coherent for the interview.\u201d<\/p>\n A clatter of plastic and metal crashed across the white laminate tiles as the sensors shrieked in panic. A wet thud of flesh smacked the floor. Inside, Mr. Belardi belly-crawled toward them, his broken shoulder splayed out to the side. His hospital gown gaped like a noose around his head.<\/p>\n \u201cMy foot! My foot!\u201d<\/p>\n The left stump hung limp from the tangle of sheets cascading over the bedrails. The flap of skin, smooth and brown, folded into a tidy crease.<\/p>\n \u201cAnna! Anna! They took my leg! They cut it off!\u201d<\/p>\n Arms beneath his waist, orderly hands pulled the gown back across his naked loins. He twisted and writhed, kicking the stump against the men that held him fast.<\/p>\n \u201cThree, two, one, lift!\u201d<\/p>\n His sobs dwindled down the hollow point of Letty\u2019s needle.<\/p>\n ***********************************************************************<\/p>\n The sergeant stood at parade rest outside the door with the gold star and red stop sign.<\/p>\n \u201cThere\u2019s nothing more we can do for your father,\u201d Dr. McCormick said. \u201cWe\u2019re a rehab institute, not a memory care facility.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cIt\u2019s gotta be the anesthesia \u2014 that\u2019s why he\u2019s confused, sir. The surgeon said it\u2019d take a while for him to get right.\u201d<\/p>\n Sergeant Drew Belardi followed in his father\u2019s fleet footsteps, fighting in Golden Gloves before enlisting in the Army. In another twenty years, he\u2019d have the same wispy smattering of hair across the crown of his head. In another forty, he might find himself lost in this same dark tunnel.<\/p>\n \u201cIt\u2019s more than anesthesia,\u201d Dr. McCormick continued. \u201cHe\u2019s refusing therapy. He\u2019s been abusive to the staff \u2014 tried to attack one with a fork. We didn\u2019t report that when the police came.\u201d<\/p>\n Sergeant Belardi dug his fists into his green Dickeys, his posture faltering.<\/p>\n \u201cI hope you told them what happened,\u201d Sergeant Belardi said. \u201cThat\u2019s why I filed a report.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cHe lost his balance and fell into a concrete planter box in front of a dozen witnesses. It wasn\u2019t elder abuse\u2026 Spatial issues are a symptom of Alzheimer\u2019s.\u201d<\/p>\n The men exhaled together under the weight of their generation\u2019s new burden.<\/p>\n \u201cI\u2019m sorry I\u2019m having a hard time believing you, sir. He\u2019s a fighter\u2026 worked hard on his rehab when they took his foot two years ago. It\u2019s gotta be the anesthesia.\u201d<\/p>\n In four years as a physician, Dr. McCormick had seen this play out too many times: Patients rallied for favored sons and favorite nurses. Between deployments, Sergeant Belardi would get the good stuff, while Anna would suffer the daily decline.<\/p>\n He played his final card.<\/p>\n \u201cLook, we can do in-home physical therapy for the shoulder. It makes a big difference for patients to be in a familiar environment with people they love. It\u2019ll probably do him a world of good to be back at Glen Acres with Anna.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cAnna?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYeah, he\u2019s been asking for her every day.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cMy Mom\u2019s been dead for two years. We lost her in the car accident that took Dad\u2019s foot.\u201d<\/p>\n Mr. Belardi returned to Glen Acres that evening with orders for an Alzheimer\u2019s evaluation.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" Here’s my second round entry into the NYC Midnight Flash Fiction Contest last year. Again, the rules are 1,000 words, 48 hours to write an original work of fiction based on prompts for GENRE, SETTING and RANDOM OBJECT. GENRE: Mystery (which I’d never written before) SETTING: Physical rehabilitation facility RANDOM OBJECT: Fried chicken (What is … Continue reading Mr. Belardi – NYC Midnight Flash Fiction Contest, Round 2 (10\/2017)<\/span>