(edited)
Thirteen hours, twenty five minutes, and forty seconds have passed since my father went into surgery. Thirteen and a half hours to think. Thirteen and a half hours to remember that I had not gotten the chance to wish my father luck, or even say goodbye. Thirteen hours to run through my whole life and all my memories with my father.
After the fourteenth, my brother and I had ended up in the cafeteria, sharing a fruit bowl. My brother eating more than I ever could. My stomach turns when I realized that a nurse or doctor could be looking for us to tell us how the surgery went.
"I have to go." I suddenly blurt, my chair tipping and crashing to the floor as I stand. I begin sprinting up flights of stairs, my shoes crashing down on the too-white floors. Frantically searching for my fathers room, I spot a nurse walking into the room just as my eyes land on it. I catch up with the nurse. She wears a smile. I become hopeful.
My eyes search her expression for any sign that my father hadn't made it. I am so flustered I can't breathe, let alone concentrate. Her smile slowly fades when she realizes I am waiting for an answer.
"Your father-" she starts, looking at the floor, then back to my eyes. "didn't make it through."
Cold. A long time ago, I had wondered about how it would feel like to go to sleep, trusting your life in someone else's hands, and then dying. Cold, I had decided.
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A/N
This is so sloppy I'm sorry.
(274 words)
