They dragged out Wella's death for as long as humanly possible, in the news.
Wella herself watched the segments, on her small bedroom TV. Wella Jenkins had once been an acting mogul; now, she was 90. Now she was bedridden. Dolly, the nurse, would sometimes come in, and sit beside her bed, during the segments. “You were so pretty,” Dolly would sigh. Wrinkles had set in, despite copious treatments in the spas. Weight settled in unwanted places; her breasts looked sadder than her face could display.
Dying, and seeing her youth on TV, left Wella slightly wistful. Seeing herself in photo stills of past projects made her yearn for her long-dead ex-husband. News of her impending end never failed to invoke a small, wry smile. She didn't know where the paparazzi hid, but, whenever new photos of her surfaced, they were as pitiful as possible – a little old maid, wrapped up in blankets, in a wiry wheelchair. The last two years had withered her down some, it was true. How did the photographers always manage to get poorly-lit shots of her, all with massive sunglasses atop her ruined mug? She only wore the glasses on outings to public places, not so much things like trips to Doctor Morgan.
Ah – that Doctor.
Her cracked smile alit a coughing fit. Regardless, she reached for her Djarums. Ah, Morgan; always trying to tempt her away from her only remaining vice: clove cigarettes. They numbed her throat, which, she felt she deserved. After an extended career as a scream queen, Wella's throat liked the relief. The coughing subsided, finally allowing her to shakily light a cigarette. She brought the tube to her lips, gently inhaling. Morgan would surely tell her a long spiel about how she wouldn't live longer than a year, in her condition. A little smoke, she assured him, on her visits, would likely not change that outcome.
Morgan would frown, a disapproving, and fatherly expression. Morgan was only in his mid-40s, but he still acted as if Wella lived under his roof. “Wella, the prognosis is bad enough,” he would remind her. “Do you want to add cancer, to your list?”
Cancer was the least of her worries: her kidneys were failing, her sight was murky, and, worst of all, she was a frail, flabby old lady. A segment on her condition came up on the news. She could hear Dolly approaching the room. “Dolly,” she said, the volume of her voice barely carrying beyond her bed.
“Wella? Do you need anything?” Dolly asked, poking her curly mane in to the room. She spotted the segment, and sat down on the same stiff chair she always did, in these occasions.
“You were so pretty, Wella,” Dolly breathed.
“I was happy,” Wella mused, taking another timid puff off of her Djarum. “Wasn't that something?”
