With a heavy heart, she penned her missive. The pain her chest had become constant, unbearable. She knew relief was coming and that it would be worth the wait, but the wait was arduous. She sat with a lapdesk under a tree, which cast a cooling shade over her. She avoided direct light, and her skin was almost as grey as the shadow, blending into it like a chameleon. People passed without seeing or noticing her, one more robed patient in the grounds.
Today was her last day. Tomorrow, on her birthday, her family would take her out of this place for a dinner celebration. Sometime, before they returned, she would find a way to end her life, her suffering.
No one believed she was in pain. She had no measurable symptom, no temperature, no congestion, no cramping, but her heart hurt! It hurt as if a pin had been shoved right through it and was slowly letting her life escape along its thin shaft. It was real pain. She wished the cause of the pain would have the courtesy of killing her itself. She didn’t want to shame her family with a suicide; she didn’t want to know what people would say of her when she was gone. She only wanted escape.
She stayed out in the shade until the thermometer fixed to the wall of the building dropped below fifty. Then someone came looking for her and others that had been enjoying the afternoon’s fresh air. They herded the patients together into the hospice.
Unlike many of the others, she was careful not to shove or push. She had been taught proper manners, and even in the midst of a mad house, she would hold to them. Anything that set her apart from the others. She wasn’t like them, she wasn’t crazy, she just couldn’t stand to live with this pain any more.
The evening meal was raucous and she happily fled to her room after, to sleep the sleep of the medicated. Before closing her eyes, she placed her letter in the pocket of her skirt, the one she would wear out to dinner tomorrow. No one should find it there, until the time was right. It was worth the wait.