Body of a Doe [short stories]

sweep it under the rug and speak of it no more

I sat down without looking at dad.

There were tubes attached to his arms, tangled. The purple bruise on his face was still swollen. His skin waned a sicken, waxy yellow, carving in itself.

"Hello," I murmured, touching the edge of the white blanket covering his bony frame. Dad's fingers jolted. His shut eyelids moved rapidly. I can feel it like a physical force in my lungs, the death was working through his bones. The intolerant, bright light made him look even more washout amongst the sterile white sheets, white bedding, and metallic surroundings. His cheeks already hollowed, lips parted and pulled back from the teeth. The cardiac detector beeped meekly in the background, the pikes got further and further away, seaming into a flat thread.

"Hey," He rasped. The single barely held onto its shape.

I wanted to reach out and touch dad. Lace our fingers. Lean my forehead on his and whisper: No, Dad. You're strong. You could live. You must live. Instead, I folded my fists in my lap and stared at the ground.

There was nothing to say. No last words.

"An hour," I said. "I'm sorry."

Dad turned his face and wept.

He wept. And wept. And wept. Until his sobs turned into short gasps and inhuman gurgles, and finally, finally, at last, after an awful long time, he sighed his last breath.

I watched his immobile body until the nurse entered the room.

"Are you okay, dear?" She placed a hand on my shoulder.

I stood and kissed his heavy-lidded eyes before straightening.

A single tear rolled down my cheek. I flicked it away.