A Fraction of Suicide

A Fraction of Suicide
by Dwain Worrell
She saw her life flash before her eyes in that final moment. The droplets didn’t fall but slithered down the hollow tube like sperm descending upon life and the puddle below swelled like cells bubbling into form. Even the IV passing through her veins was like a temporary umbilical cord, keeping her momentarily noosed to life.
As the moment passed and it did, quickly, Virginia turned to the doctor. He passed over in a blur of white and the nurses too had become clouds floating above her, shifting in-between the lights on the ceiling like blinks under white eyelashes.
“Is he dead?” she tried to ask but only mouthed and no one replied or at least she didn’t hear.
She could only think now, as she fought the stuporous gravity pulling down on her eyelashes, of how she was raped so willingly. A prostitute by profession, Virginia at times wondered herself how one rapes a prostitute and she would immediately recall that night six weeks earlier. He didn’t pay her.
She lost part of herself that night as she tried to sell her body but had it stolen. It was the futility, the indignation, all of it driving her to the edge and now she was falling over, dying at a fraction and all because of a broken condom.
“Is he dead?” she finally asked with words escaping from her lips.
“Not exactly,” the nurse replied, then paused, searching for words. “It was a girl. And yes, we extracted her successfully.”
Virginia sighed like it was her last and closed her eyes in a final give in to the IV putting her unwillingly to sleep. And the thought that buffered her consciousness and dreams was that today and again, another part of her was dead.