Old Luke lies in a hospital bed, staring out from a body that no longer works. A body that will never work again. He watches the hazy figure that stalks the ward each night, touching the chosen ones lightly on the shoulder and releasing them from their flesh-covered prisons. Luke longs to feel the figure’s hazy hand on his shoulder. Some nights he tries to move, tries to shout, tries to blink his eyes – anything to get the figure’s attention. But it never even looks in his direction. It just walks on by and saves its gifts for younger men.
Written for the Daily Prompt: Panicked