FROM COLYNDA

It's like a shadow play, the doctor said. A Chinese shadow play.
I'm not exactly sure when this happened. It seems important not to get things out of sequence.
Shadows? I asked.
Yes. Shadows. He had the square jaw of the high school football star he'd once been. He allowed me to think and saw my blank expression. Imagine a Chinese shadow play. Sometimes a shadow is just that: a shadow, and nothing more. Sometimes it's not a shadow. Sometimes it's a dragon. We can't tell by looking at an x-ray. We need carry out an bronchoscopy.
You mean put a camera down? I asked.
Then we'll know, the doctor said.

Now we're in this room, Jackson and I. He lies in the bed, while I sit in the chair, watching him.

I've taken up smoking again. People think it's the stress and make excuses for me. How can you blame her? I mean, God. Only they don't understand.

Look at him: Jackson. He's like a copy of his real self. Not a very convincing copy either. I know that the last time I really saw him was two months ago before all this started. How long has he been sick? There are those two months I know about for sure, but who knows how long this thing has been growing. Certainly not the doctors at the hospital. It's irrelevant to them. It's up to them to make a diagnosis, and assess the prognosis, discuss the metastasis. And they talk to you and you nod your head and assume they know what they are talking about.

Sometimes it's not a shadow. Sometimes it's a dragon.

I didn't have to come here today. There could have been any number of things I might have had to do. Things that I've put off doing over the last couple of months, things I really ought to do. No one would have criticised me. How could they? But no, here I am, drawn here against my will. That's Jackson for you. He always did get his way. There never was any contradicting him, no dissent allowed. You were always on your guard because the threat of his temper was kept on a tight leash that he might let go at any minute. He lies there in that bed, the only movement his breathe, and I'm no less under his influence now than I ever was. So I didn't make excuses. I came here. To this room.

I can't stop looking at him. His skin has a jaundiced pallor. It's puckered, like the skin of an over ripe fruit. His hair is gone. Strange how his eyebrows are still there, though. I grip the wooden arms of the chair and stare. I want to touch him, to prove that I'm not afraid, that I'm not repulsed by him. As if I'm being monitored, and someone's taking notes on how I behave, and at some stage I'll be presented with an inventory of my failings. But very quickly you have to learn a new set of rules here; whatever knowledge you bring in the door isn't going to help you.

CRITIQUE

I’d lose the shadow play part completely – pretty obscure, and way too many words for very little payout in meaning. Eliminate the pronoun “you”. Eliminate italicized external conversation. Cut empty verbs as much as possible, particularly to be, to have, to do. You use “here” and “there” unnecessarily. You have a bit of a hammer mannerism – you present an idea and then repeat it using different words, like this:

There could have been any number of things I might have had to do. Things that I've put off doing over the last couple of months, things I really ought to do.

There never was any contradicting him, no dissent allowed.

You say false things. It is not in the least irrelevant to doctors how long the thing’s grown. In fact, I’m sure they’d consider information like that quite important. You say she didn’t have to come today, but then spend a whole paragraph explaining why she had to come today.

You express things oddly at times. I don’t know how a person can have a “jaundiced pallor”. Pallor means white, jaundiced means yellow. Explain to me how breath moves. I have not a clue what your very last sentence has to do with anything that went before it. Read the piece with these problems and others addressed:

Jackson lies in the bed, while I sit in the chair, watching him.

I’m smoking again. People think it's the stress and make excuses for me. They don’t understand.

Jackson is like a copy of his real self, and not a very convincing one. The last time I saw him normal was two months ago. How long has he been sick? Those two months for sure, but who knows how long this thing’s been growing? The doctors diagnose, discuss the metastasis, assess the prognosis, and talk, and I nod my head and assume they know what they are talking about.

I shouldn’t have come today; there are many things I really ought to do. No one would criticize me - how could they? But no…here I am, drawn against my will. That's Jackson. He always gets his way, no dissent allowed...that temper of his. The only movement is the steady rise and fall of his chest, but I'm no less under his influence. So no excuses…I came.

His jaundiced skin is puckered, like the skin of over ripe fruit. His hair is gone, though his eyebrows remain. I grip the wooden arms of the chair and stare. I want to touch him to prove I'm not afraid, not repulsed by him, as if performing for some unseen rector grading my behavior. But soon, I learn a new rule: doing the “right” things won’t help me.

I think it could use quite an overhaul, in my opinion.