Short Short Thinger

it hurt them more than it hurt me, so of course i would put a brave face on it and lie to their eyes as i told them i was feel­ing health­ier and would see them in the morn­ing. they couldn’t un­der­stand that i wanted to die.

i was worn out, dy­ing is a rough busi­ness and all i wanted was some sleep. per­ma­nently. they were be­ing strong and ly­ing to me with the same brave face, telling me i looked bet­ter and that they’d see me in the morn­ing. ap­par­ently they thought i needed it.

i’m pretty sure they wouldn’t have been able to com­pre­hend that i was no longer suf­fer­ing. the pain had long ago leached all phys­i­cal sen­sa­tion from my body. i was al­ready in the other world, just tied to the body. when we are dy­ing we are truly ghosts.

any­way, i let them tell them­selves that they’d done their part and i watched them leave, pulling their doubt of my sur­vival through the night on with their coats. i didn’t quite know what i looked like any­more, but the blanch­ing faces of my fam­ily each time they came to visit let me know it never got bet­ter. oh well, that hadn’t been my con­cern for quite some time.

i don’t worry if they’ll be al­right once i’m gone. its not that i don’t care, more like there is no point in wor­ry­ing be­cause i’m go­ing to die any­way.

still, once they all left, it was much eas­ier. if i died in front of them i would have had to have put on a good show, death rat­tle and all. i didn’t want to dis­ap­point, be­sides every night they were ex­pect­ing that phone call. i didn’t no­tify any­one of my in­ten­tions, the re­lease date was not pub­lic, just a pri­vate show­ing for my friend the bed pan. only one box of­fice re­turn for me, six feet down. so i closed my eyes.

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