Tahara
For the ar_drabbles challenge "body parts (elbow)"
Bill looked at her over their joined hands. "I'm going to take care of you Laura, if you'll let me."
For once she offered no protest. He took her to where he would bathe her, watching her the whole time. Her eyes were closed, the ghost of a smile on her lips. She stayed like that as he undressed her carefully, slowly, mindful of the mess.
He stripped off one of his own tanks and wet it, then washed her scalp, her face, her shoulders and chest. He wet it again and washed her feet and her legs, leaving the parts in most need of his attention for last.
Out of habit, he checked her for signs of pain. Her smile never wavered.
He washed her hands, under jewelry too big for her withered bones. Up her forearm to the crook of her elbow. He could still see the bruising, the puncture marks, the signs of the struggle she never wanted to wage against cancer but did for him. She had wanted to die quickly, leaving a beautiful corpse and for him she had fought, suffered, and was left here on this new Earth shriveled and soiled.
She had expressed horror at the thought of anyone doing for her what she had done for her mother and yet here she was and here he was, washing the evidence of death from her body.
There was comfort in being an atheist. He didn't believe that she knew what was happening. At least she'd been spared knowing that she'd turned into her mother after all.
But some part of him had begun to believe. Some part of him hoped that when his time came she'd be waiting on the shore, clean and smiling. The crooks of her elbows would be perfect, unblemished.
Bill looked at her over their joined hands. "I'm going to take care of you Laura, if you'll let me."
For once she offered no protest. He took her to where he would bathe her, watching her the whole time. Her eyes were closed, the ghost of a smile on her lips. She stayed like that as he undressed her carefully, slowly, mindful of the mess.
He stripped off one of his own tanks and wet it, then washed her scalp, her face, her shoulders and chest. He wet it again and washed her feet and her legs, leaving the parts in most need of his attention for last.
Out of habit, he checked her for signs of pain. Her smile never wavered.
He washed her hands, under jewelry too big for her withered bones. Up her forearm to the crook of her elbow. He could still see the bruising, the puncture marks, the signs of the struggle she never wanted to wage against cancer but did for him. She had wanted to die quickly, leaving a beautiful corpse and for him she had fought, suffered, and was left here on this new Earth shriveled and soiled.
She had expressed horror at the thought of anyone doing for her what she had done for her mother and yet here she was and here he was, washing the evidence of death from her body.
There was comfort in being an atheist. He didn't believe that she knew what was happening. At least she'd been spared knowing that she'd turned into her mother after all.
But some part of him had begun to believe. Some part of him hoped that when his time came she'd be waiting on the shore, clean and smiling. The crooks of her elbows would be perfect, unblemished.