The patient is still.
He lies, unmoving, in his bed.
Docile does not describe him.
          Passive? No.
Comatose is most appropriate.

The doctors crowd outside the window,
filtering into the room occasionally,
for tests and procedures,
diagnostics and analyses.
They monitor his vitals,
check his heart rate,
consider his condition.

"It seems to have entered a plateau stage,"
they comment.
"No activity, no change."

The lights go out, the doctors return home -
          home, to their wives and girlfriends,
          and sons and daughters.
          Home.
They take with them the thought -
          of that poor man,
          the patient,
          lying still on his bed.

Back in the ward,
the patient lies in his bed.
His eyes are open, unblinking.
A small tremor passes through his body,
and then explodes into countless more.
His eyes fly open, then tightly back shut,
his muscles clench and spasm,
writhing against the poorly placed bonds and restraints,
put there as an afterthought by the doctors.
His mouth is agape, and a scream rises from his throat,
tearing through the silence of the ward,
echoing through hallways and bouncing off walls.
He screams as though something is being torn from him,
torn from his person with brute force, instead of precision.
Tears stream from his closed eyes,
dripping down his face and down his neck
          in unending flows.

The writhing slows, then ceases.
The screams stop.
The tears take longer,
          reducing to a trickle
                    then to a drip.

The patient is still.

The doctors return the next morning,
and discover the torn bonds,
and discover the recorded heart rate
          that rose and fell erratically.
They stare through the window in shock.
Yet the patient is still.

A meeting is arranged.
The doctors frown,
          puzzle
confer.
"We believed that the cause for his condition
          was past,"
they admit.
"We believed that it was over.
Apparently, we were incorrect.
We shall monitor him for further activity."
The doctors nod, smile tentatively,
shake hands, and leave,
feeling as though they accomplished something.
Steps are being taken.

Days pass.
The doctors stare through the window
at the motionless form of the patient.
They look at one another,
they shake their heads.

Another meeting is arranged.
The doctors nod
          discuss
agree.
"We believe that the cause for his condition
          has now passed,"
they state.
"We will no longer monitor his condition
around the clock, instead,
check in every now and then."
The doctors nod, smile firmly,
shake hands, and leave,
feeling as though they accomplished something.
Steps have been taken.

Days pass.
An intern stares through the window
at the motionless form of the patient.
He looks at his watch,
and shakes his head.
He leaves.

Back in the ward,
the patient lies in his bed.
His eyes are open, unblinking.
A small tremor passes through his body,
and then explodes into a fury of more.
Screams race through the empty hallways of the ward,
Arms and limbs flail, jaw and hands clench,
tears flow once again.

The intern, returning, coffee in his hand,
hears a fatigued scream, and drops his cup.
He races to the patient's room
in time to see the last
          the tremors,
          the tears,
then nothing.

A meeting is arranged.
The doctors scowl,
          sigh
shrug.
"We believed that the cause for his condition
          was past,"
they admit.
"We believed that it was over.
Apparently, we were incorrect."
The speaker hesitates,
and the doctors lean in, curious.
"At this time, we are unable to determine
          a course of action,"
they admit.
The doctors stare, gape openly,
collect papers, and leave,
feeling as though they failed.
Steps had been taken,
and they proved to be inadequate.

Back in his room,
the patient is still.