Mashiah
by Mish



Long, thin, fragile - a spider-web of veins that pulses under the pale,
stretched skin.  It's been broken, stepped on, abused by him and others. 
Now, it suffers under the velcro strap, confined to the bleached hospital
sheets.  It no longer moves, no longer travels; its owner lies before her,
his burning stare speaking of a trapped, desperate mind.

"Doctor Scully?"

"Yes?"  Fatigue makes her sway into the bed rail; she's still on West
African time.

"His therapist comes tomorrow.  Why don't you go home - "

"I'll do it, thanks."  A terse, dismissing reply that chases the hovering
nurse away.

Her hands massage baby oil into the graceful arch as she leans over to
speak to those beautiful eyes.

"Did you know that the Jewish culture honored rubbing with oils to such an
extent that its root word is 'mashiah?'"

The toes curl and she smiles.

Despite the body, the mind still moves.

END