As his thumb nervously hovers over the plunger I am aware of a faint tapping outside. My mother opens the door and walks in to the scene. I am saved. Her eyes grow wide as she gazes at the doctor, realisation slowly dawning. She screams and lunges at him, he falls over waving his hands and trying to explain.
"You sick bastard!", the first time I have heard my mother's voice in years, "he's my son! How could you? How could you!".
"He's sick and he's never going to get better. I am offering him the only peace he will ever have," he replies, the illness pouring from his mouth. Then, my mother faltered. Then stopped. Horror, blackest horror and betrayal, fills my mind with its bile. My mind is tarred shut. He stands and walks to the corner of the room, she follows and they murmur quietly. I strain to hear, desperate to know my fate but I can discern nothing but the occasional sorrowful glance back to me. When they have finished she approaches me, sitting on my bed she strokes my face and looks in to my eyes. I pour my heart, my soul... my very life in to my gaze. I look at her. She at me. Then, with a genuine expression of love, she turns to him and nods.
My life is forfeit. He returns to the syringe and pushes down. My deliruem intensifies, my ears are filled with the murmuring of the people on that dream street. I scan the room from them, to the detestful walls and finally to the window. As I feel my vision fading I grasp at it mentally; my one solace. My mother and the doctor lean over, blocking it from view. I see the illness in their eyes.