Organs Of Donation

Life after Death

Sally flicked through the magazine on her lap as she took another drag on her cigarette. She coughed, a hacking, phlegm inducing effort. Even to her own ears, the sound was revolting, so she wasn't surprised at the disgusted looks she received from passers-by, as they went about their business in the plaza. Nor in the teenage laughter, as the kids pointed at her, their own fingers full of tobacco.

Another drag, another coughing fit. Like they had room to point, Sally thought, as she turned the page. Her eyes were bombarded with images of youth - svelte and smiling, in party frocks and beach bikinis. And young, fit adults playing volleyball on the sand. She took another drag, consoling herself for her lost youth. But she was only forty two, her insulted self-worth argued back. But even that was growing weaker, sounding more apathetic by the day.

Another drag, another spewing of guts as she shook her head, observing another photo - a young girl falling out of a taxi, her nipple having escaped over the low cut dress she wore. Anyway, she thought, if this was an example of youth, she didn't want to be young. Losing their dignity in such a way.

Had she ever done that? She scanned back through her memories. She remembered her first cigarette. An attempt to be in with the popular kids - the cool class. She laughed now, and almost choked, coughing as she tapped ash from the over-burdened crutch between her fingers. The kids on the bench laughed again, and mimicked her. The plaza suddenly reverberating with their barks. She shut them out, licked the end of her yellowing finger and turned the page.

DO YOU WANT TO LIVE AFTER DEATH?

The donor advert was bold and eye catching. Sally pursed her lips around her fag. Almost done. She flicked, coughed and coughed some more. Her insides no longer satisfied with a throat full of phlegm, now her guts were following suit. Her throat sour and dead. Between each drawn breath, she heard the kids laugh. She saw them point their fags in her direction then drew back puffing smoke into the air, acting cool. She remembered that cleverness.

She breathed…she tried to breath…another cough.

She was feeling dizzy. The magazine fell from her lap as she dragged her bag onto her knee. Where was her inhaler? She needed to stay calm. Another staccato breath on the end of her lipstick stained cigarette. Just stay calm. Her inhaler must be in her bag somewhere. She couldn't go anywhere without it these days.

There was a rattle beneath her breast bone, she gasped for air, felt dizzy and clung onto consciousness. Was she conscious? Of course she was. She was ok. She could hear a siren, an urgent response. Somewhere, someone must be sick, she wondered, as she felt her chest collapse. No breath…she was falling forward... her face making contact with the magazine on the plaza slabs. Many feet dodged her nose. There was pain somewhere. Her chest tight. DO YOU WANT TO LIVE AFTER DEATH? The advert was a squint away, but the words were reverberating around her head. Live after death. Life after death. Perhaps? Could she?

No breath she gasped…No life…she thought…No life after death…for her. She doubted her organs would be fit for donation, not after the abuse she'd given them. Still, perhaps she’d taught those fag-sucking youngsters, a lesson. In her last moments she hoped it would prevent them from ever needing a lung transplant, from ever joining that long, long list. From ever being refused a place on that list. Yes… That’s it, she thought hopefully, as someone stubbed a cigarette out by her nose. If only she’d done the same. If only she'd dared to be different - before the chance had gone… before her breath had gone…before light and hope was snatched away....