Lifeline (WIP)

         I don’t know a thing about good intentions, but my path to hell was paved with the lime-green linoleum of my kitchen floor and the coffee seeping from my mug, spreading like a bloodstain as my world faded to black.
         “He’s fighting it, but…”
         I can hear them in the hallway outside my room. I’ve been here for days and they still won’t tell me what had happened. The doctors just huddle outside my door like vultures, poring over my charts while hushed whispers reach me in the stale silence of my hospital room. Somewhere in the darkness a machine beeps, telling me I’m still alive; I’m thankful for that much at least as another night passes slowly, the quiet desperation of it almost palpable in the warm Florida air.
         “Mr. Sommers?”
         I crack an eyelid and look up at him. The man stands above me, looming as if God Almighty had come down from his throne to pass judgement on me. His face is obscured by the shadows of my room and I strain to make out his features.
         “What?” I croak out. My own voice surprises me as it rasps from between the dried remnants of my lips. When was the last time I’d had something to eat or drink? How long had I been here? The machine I’m hooked up to beeps as if to mock the lack of an answer I had for these questions; a heckler in a sterile hell. My eyes are too heavy to hold open for long and even as I try to see beneath the white brimmed fedora the man wore, they close.

         “Mr. Sommers?” he asks again. When I open my eyes the sunlight is pouring in through the large windows of my room, a breeze tickling at the thin white curtains which do little to keep the light out. Hadn’t it just been night? My head is spinning and my chest feels like a Buick had crashed into it and the tow truck was still on its way.
         “What?” I repeat myself. I speak a little louder this time, a little angrier, trying to mask the confusion that no doubt crept into my tone. 
         “Good. You’re awake. Can you tell me your full name?” the doctor asks me. A squat man in green scrubs, he has his clipboard out and I can see the expectancy in his eyes as he looks down at me.
         “Leroy Sommers” I answer curtly.
         “Good, and your age?”
         “Fifty-Five, look doc you should—“ I start to protest but he cuts me off.
         “I have to ask these questions, Mr. Sommers; It’s standard policy and neither you, nor I, can get around it.” He sounds almost bored as he tells me this, the man not even looking up from his clipboard like some parent offhandedly dismissing an overly inquisitive child. “What’s the last thing you remember before waking up here, Mr. Sommers?”
         “Leroy”
         “Excuse me?” he looks up, my short reply clearly getting his attention at last.
         “If you’re going to be coming in here and demanding answers from me without telling me anything first, I suppose we’re cozy enough to be using first names, ain’t we doc?” I snap at him. “’course, I don’t think I’ve gotten yours so maybe I’m wrong.” He looks stunned at first, eager to return to his clipboard and regain the buffer it provided between my gaze and his own.
         “I’m sorry, Mr. Somm… I mean, Leroy. I’m just doing my job. There are a lot of people wondering why you’re here, and I bet you’re one of them.” His tone becomes more apologetic as he talks and I relax, it’s amazing how quickly some people back down when challenged.
         “Damn right.” I answer, sitting up in my bed only to sink down when a sliver of white hot pain pierces my chest. The breath slips from my lungs in what feels like a torrent but sounds like a muted gasp as the room spins around me. I can see the doctor move beside me with his arms up and ready to help, that clipboard still clutched in a hand. When I’m on my back again he relaxes.
         “I wouldn’t try to move too much. You’ve suffered a rather serious heart attack; a clot in your right coronary artery seems to be the culprit. Your daughter