Morphine

No doubt, the old man was dying. His son was in the corridor, talking about hospice with an old nurse. Sarah watched the charade, disinterested. She may have been young, but she knew well enough that the old man's life would be better measured with a wristwatch than with a calendar. And, she was counting on it. The sooner he died, the sooner she could sleep. The very thought of it was inviting, heavy, and intoxicating. "Morphine," she mumbled to herself. Letting her mind go, it drifted and wandered, wild with visions - fantastic and perverse, of how things would unfold.