Moana

Her name alone was intriguing. A perfect fit for a woman whom upon first glance one could tell had a story. Moana was what everyone in the hospital called her. A title her present state contradicted for the mythical Moana was a Polynesian sea-goddess, a beautiful inhumanly creation. Today Moana was not looking nor feeling her best. In fact she hadn’t been for many years. Due to her alcoholism Moanas kidneys were failing, causing her to be a regular at the Bay of Islands hospital in Kawakawa, New Zealand. She was a women of few words yet you could tell her mind was alert in the way she stared, the way her curved almond eyes followed the tiny white nurses shoes that danced like mice under the slit in the door. Her looks were deceiving, misleading others to believe she was older then her ripe age of 43. Her dark leathery skin fell victim to years of heavy drinking leaving her face swollen, and etched in a maze of thin wrinkles that framed her weathered features.

Sometimes Moana spoke. Mainly to reveal tales of her tribal life, explaining and tracing over her thick inked tattoos that cuffed her wrists and ankles. Or to relive the way she danced under the hot New Zealand sun, accompanied by endless cups of vodka on ice, strange men and the cool ocean waves.

Moanas most frequent visitor was a strange man named George. Strange in the way he came and went. Lost in the way he loved so strongly yet enabled Moanas helpless addiction. George always came at night. You knew he was approaching roughly two minutes prior to actually seeing him due to his noisy ensemble. You could hear his heavy combat boots and thick wad of keys collaborating in a rhythmic echo that sent signals down the hospital hall. Upon hearing this Moana would perk up, for her two loves were coming. George never arrived empty handed. On the edge of her bed he sat, a sturdy outline in the dark room, while Moanas neighbor, an 85 year old women named Celia quietly watched, as he slid the clear bottle into Moanas knee high boot. George and Moana never got intimate during these interactions. It was more business like; quick and to the point. This was mainly because they were not alone and partly because George was not Moanas top priority. Once she new the bottle was near the thought of twisting its seal and swigging down the room temperature beverage was the only thing that occupied her mind.

Despite Moanas destructive behavior, there was something in her exterior existence, her confident stride and tinted almond eyes that alluded to the fantasy of miraculous recovery. “This time when I get released will really be the last” She pleads to George. His head sinks as he averts his eyes to her boot, anchored to the tile floor with a bottle of vodka. He then peers back up, gazing into her big light eyes, whispering quiet nothings, he whimpers softly, turning his back on Moana he then adjusts his lengthy body to leave. George’s keys jingle and sway as he, taking his time, slowly lingers out of the dark room. He knows he has done wrong, yet he reassures himself she’s too far gone. Moana stares at the slit under the door following Georges heavy feet, she waits to make sure she is completely alone, before quenching her thirst. One step at a time, his heavy body moves. Three more faded beats, then George is gone.