George?

"Footage of an Old Wrinkled Female Hands with a Big Old Ring on Finger."Getty Images. N.p., n.d. Web. 08 Jan. 2016

 Oh please. Elderly my ass. I am perfectly capable of doing anything I want. I don’t need help. I’ve been in this awful old people house less than a day, and I can’t bear a second longer of it. I eye the keys on the food counter that the old people helper left there. That’s my ticket outta here.

She comes over with a fake smile plastered on her face, “Here’s your dinner, Dorothy.”

It looks like I’m not the first to digest it. In the food area, there is a group of children holding roses. Another Christmas carol, isn’t it. We had Christmas carols two weeks ago. I sit down and a chipper little youngling comes racing over. Oh, f**k off, lemme eat.

An hour later, the helper gently taps me, as if she is afraid I’ll crumble to pieces if she uses too much force. “Let’s go back to your room, shall we? Did you have a good dinner?”

The helper, who desperately needs a haircut, holds out her arm waiting for me to link mine around hers. What? Does she think I need help walking back up to the rooms? Fuming, I decide to go over to my husband’s bed. He will cheer me up. We walk slowly to the elevator, where the helper puts in her key.

“George?” I call.

My voice is hoarse and croaky because they never give us anything to drink in this miserable place in all the three months I’ve been stuck here.

One of the helpers approaches me, her keys jingling as she catches up. “Come, let me help you to your bed.”

“I’m going to see my husband first, thank you very much,” I say. My voice is hoarse and croaky because they never give us anything to drink in this miserable place. The whole four days I’ve been stuck here. George’s hall always smells like white musk, so I know I’m going in the right direction.

“D-Dorothy?” George called. He was making tea in the kitchen.

“Is everything alright?” I asked skeptically. His voice was trembling.

“I don’t know, I-I feel kind of dizzy, and my-“

“Dorothy, is everything alright?” The helper towers over me with a concerned expression.

“Fine. I-I’m fine. I’m not sure what happened there.”

I shake off the eerie feeling I have and keep walking. I’ve been having those visions a lot lately, probably because this place is slowly driving me crazy.

“You can go see him tomorrow morning, it’s late and I don’t want you to wake the others up,” The helper suggests a bit too desperately. She thinks I’m going to cause a racket? She thinks I’m too loud? She’s only known me two weeks, who is she to judge? All that hair probably clouds her judgment anyway.

“Now you listen here, although I know that may be hard because of all that hair covering your ears, I’m not loud and I must go see him!”

The helper lets out an exasperated sigh, and concedes.

Now I can share my letter with him, the one our daughter wrote. “George! There you are, you’re a mess. Let me show you my letter. Come on, move over,”

George’s eyelids flutter and he gives me a blank, glazy eyed look. “Helen?” he says.

The next few hours are a blur of tears and frustration. There is an aching in my chest as my visions are confirmed. The photograph the helper shows me. The photo of George, who, as the helper gently explains, had died two years ago when he fainted and hit his head. The room suddenly looks foreign to me. The helpers try to take me outside, but nothing is there for me either. I know the way I will spend the rest of my life. Waiting to join him.