Death Row

By Jeanne Davies

He disappeared through the plasticised doors wearing a hospital gown revealing glimpses of his bottom.

I slumped on the hard plastic chair remembering the child with golden curls; the bespectacled schoolboy with sweets falling from ripped blazer pockets; the shy spotty youth who went to university and discovered his sexuality.

—

I saw the doctor’s expression, but he wouldn’t talk to me—my son was a man now. Surely HIV was something drug addicts get?

As I took my son’s cold hand in mine, he didn’t object. The corridor was cold and unforgiving as we walked along like prisoners on Death Row.