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Description
   A strobe light flickers overhead. The uncomfortable chair beneath me creaks as I shift my weight. I yawn, and stretch my arms, feeling cramped and claustrophobic. Beside me, a fat man sits in his own uncomfortable chair, head lolling, snoring gently. The smell of disinfectant in the air is unbearable.
   No. That's not right. The disinfectant is perfectly bearable. What I can't stand is the stench that it's futilely attempting to disguise; this place reeks of the sickly and the old, of the terminally ill and hopeless, of blood, and tears, and despair. This place reeks of death. I hate hospitals.
  I find myself, not for the first time, wondering why I'm here. What am I trying to achieve? Am I looking for answers? From what I hear, I won't be getting any. Solace, then? Am I seeking some comfort from this experience? Unlikely. The chances of finding comfort are even less than that of finding answers. I don't know. Maybe I'll find out soon.
   It's getting late. I've been here for, what, five, six hours? Probably more. Came as soon as the hospital called me. When I got here, the doctors were still operating. They wouldn't let me see him. It's just as well. There was a lot of blood. They told me to sit, and wait. Five, six hours later, here I am, still sitting, still waiting, in a room that smells like dirty soap, next to a fat man who's starting to drool on my shoulder. It's getting late. I'm tired. Sleep is not far away. The coffee here is no good, and I fight with my eyelids, forcing them the stay open, forcing myself to stay awake. This time the battle is won, and I buy myself a few more minutes of consciousness. It won't last, though. In the haze between waking and dreaming, old memories start to resurface. They flit across my mind's eye, a kaleidoscope of blurred images and jumbled words.
   My mother. I'm three years old, and my mother is smiling at me. I giggle back, and she sweeps me up in her arms, and then I'm flying, high above the ground, and everybody beneath me is the size of an ant, and I laugh in blissful glee. She smiles back at me, but I know that there is something wrong, I can see it in her eyes, but I don't know what, and then I'm falling, falling back down again, all the way down, and I...
   I'm eight, now. I'm in the kitchen, eating my dinner. Mum comes home. She's tired. Unspeaking, she walks past me, and into her room. She locks the door behind her. Mum is tired a lot nowadays. I understand why. Money isn't easy to make, but I need to eat. But lately, she's been getting more tired. And sometimes, when she's tired, she gets cranky, and she hits me, and yells at me, and I cry, but I still love her, and this time, this time...
   This time I'm thirteen. It's Tuesday. My watch reads 4:36. I'm standing in front of my house. An ambulance is parked nearby. There are police officers and paramedics everywhere. One of them approaches me.
   She says, "Go home. You can't come in here."
   I say, "I live here."
   She says, "Is the woman who lives here your mother?"
   I nod.
   She takes a deep breath, and gives me the bad news. I already know.
   They found her in the kitchen, next to half a jar of sleeping pills. From far away, I can hear the paramedic talking in muted tones; she's asking me about my father: who he is, where he is, how to get in touch with him. I tell her that I don't have one.
   Sleep is coming for me again. I try to fight it. Too late.
   There are no dreams.

   I'm woken by muffled sobbing. Somewhere nearby, there is a woman crying hysterically; mourning over a lost child, perhaps, or a lost friend, or parent, or lover. Who knows? I stand up, and stumble as blood rushes into my head. My legs are numb and stiff. My neck is sore. I look around. The fat man who was sitting next me is no longer there, so I stretch, and refresh myself at the water dispensor.
   A nurse walks out briskly from around the corner. She stops when she catches sight of me.
   "Ah. You're awake," she declares.
   "Yeah. Can I see my, uh, the patient?" I say, massaging throbbing neck with one hand.
   "Yes, he's in a critical but stable condition." She flicks through the clipboard she is holding. "I take it you are the patient's son?"
   "I guess so. That's what the DNA tests said, apparently."
   "Oh. I take it you're not close to your father?"
   I chuckle. "Yeah, I suppose so. Never met him before."
   "Oh." There is a moment of awkward silence. The nurse, sensing that she was on a delicate subject, opts for a change of topic.
   "So. Your ... father, is in room 38A."
   "Where's that, then?"
   "Don't worry, I'll take you there. Are you ready?"
   "No. But I guess it's now or never."
   She leads the way through the empty corridors, while I trail a few steps behind her. As we walk, she starts telling me about my father's condition. The car crash was a tragedy. All in all, three people were killed. He was the only survivor, but not much better off. He had suffered severe concussions and spinal injuries, and a pipe at impaled him through one side of his ribcage...
   35A. I feel nervous. My heart starts beating faster. The nurse keeps talking, saying that the doctors managed to resusitate him, and his heartbeat and respiration are kept working by mechanical means, but it is possible that a total necrosis of the celebral neurons could have resulted from loss of blood flow and oxygenation...
   36A. I have second thoughts. Is this really necessary? The man I am going to visit had no intention of ever seeing me; he was the one who walked out before I could remember what he looked like. Why should I visit him? I can still hear the nurse talking; the patient is likely already brain-dead, although if he's lucky, it'll only be a case of persistant vegetative state. If doctors declare the former, then life support will be discontinued, and cardiac death will be allowed to occur...
   37A. My heart is pounding in my throat. What would I see, when I walked into that room? I tell myself not to be afraid. The nurse's voice sounds distant, and every step feels like a mile.
   38A. A voice in my head tells me that it's still not too late to turn back. It barely registers. I walk into the room, and meet my father.
   But all I see is a broken, shrivelled old man, wrapped in bloodsoaked bandages and hooked into a bulky machine beside his bed by tubes and needles. Had there been some sort of mistake? Maybe the DNA test had lied after all. Maybe there had been a mix-up with the room numbers, and my father was really next door, or on another floor, snoring away gently...
   No. He's definitely my father, for within his features I see fragments of my own. The curvature of his brow, the coarseness of his lips, the width of his nose - these were all features I see in the mirror every morning, features that had first belonged to him. Instantly, I feel a burning sensation rising in my chest, but it is not hatred, as I thought it would be, but rather a deep sense of shock. I felt robbed. How could this man, his body shattered with both injuries and age, have possibly been the one who walked out without looking back one night in Spring? How could he have caused me all the suffering I've been through, the people I've lost, the childhood I never had? How? I force myself to hate him, but to my disgust I find that instead I pity him. The flood of emotions suddenly overwhelms me, and I can't take anymore. Pushing the nurse aside, I flee into the solace of the hallway.

   Under cold, artificial lighting, I take deep breaths and clear my head. I tell myself that this is the man who's responsible for what my life has become, that he's the reason I grew up without a father, that he's the reason that ...
   And yet I find myself feeling sympathetic. Whether he is my father or not, he is still here, body mashed up by plastic and metal and quickly failing him, while his mind is trapped in wondrous oblivion. He's an ancient creature who has finally reached the end of the path, but there is nobody there to see him into the clearing. Dying, alone, in a world he no longer understands. Nobody deserves that. Not even him. I find myself remembering something my mother had told me once, when I was ten, or eleven. She took me by the shoulders, squeezing until it hurt, and looked me in the eyes. And she said, "You can live for as long as you want. You can go and make money, and start a family, and look for God, and maybe you'll find Him. But at the end of the day, if you're not happy, you're not really living at all."
   And all of a sudden, I know what I have to do.
   When I re-enter the room, the nurse is still there. I ask her to leave my father and I alone, and she complies, leaving the room briskly. I take a seat next to the bed, and take his hand in mine. Should I utter any last words? Probably best not to. The moment is enough, and it will all be over soon. I take one last look at the man who sired me, and think, So this is how it all ends, huh? Bet you never saw it coming, did you?
   But, of course, there's no reaction; he lies there, as ever, the only sign of life being a mechanical hiss and the gentle rising and falling of his chest. Sighing, I reach over to the oxygen tank, and fumble for the switch.
   The 'click' is barely audible, but nonetheless deafening.
   There is a moment of terror, and his eyelids flicker open, directed by a deep, basic instinct which even car-crashes could not touch. His body begins to thrash about like a puppet, driven by invisible hands that want one more frantic dance. His empty eyes meet mine. I hold him tight, and whisper words of reassurance that he never hears. Then spasms become more violent, and for a horrifying instant I wonder if I had made a mistake, that he had only been asleep and I had killed him. But then the thrashing stops, and I am alone, the deafening silence permeated only by the shrill, constant whining of machines as they tell me what I already know.
   I feel cold.

Description
   A strobe light flickers overhead. The uncomfortable chair beneath me creaks as I shift my weight. I yawn, and stretch my arms, feeling cramped and claustrophobic. Beside me, a fat man sits in his own uncomfortable chair, head lolling, snoring gently. The smell of disinfectant in the air is unbearable.
   No. That's not right. The disinfectant is perfectly bearable. What I can't stand is the stench that it's futilely attempting to disguise; this place reeks of the sickly and the old, of the terminally ill and hopeless, of blood, and tears, and despair. This place reeks of death. I hate hospitals.
  I find myself, not for the first time, wondering why I'm here. What am I trying to achieve? Am I looking for answers? From what I hear, I won't be getting any. Solace, then? Am I seeking some comfort from this experience? Unlikely. The chances of finding comfort are even less than that of finding answers. I don't know. Maybe I'll find out soon.
   It's getting late. I've been here for, what, five, six hours? Probably more. Came as soon as the hospital called me. When I got here, the doctors were still operating. They wouldn't let me see him. It's just as well. There was a lot of blood. They told me to sit, and wait. Five, six hours later, here I am, still sitting, still waiting, in a room that smells like dirty soap, next to a fat man who's starting to drool on my shoulder. It's getting late. I'm tired. Sleep is not far away. The coffee here is no good, and I fight with my eyelids, forcing them the stay open, forcing myself to stay awake. This time the battle is won, and I buy myself a few more minutes of consciousness. It won't last, though. In the haze between waking and dreaming, old memories start to resurface. They flit across my mind's eye, a kaleidoscope of blurred images and jumbled words.
   My mother. I'm three years old, and my mother is smiling at me. I giggle back, and she sweeps me up in her arms, and then I'm flying, high above the ground, and everybody beneath me is the size of an ant, and I laugh in blissful glee. She smiles back at me, but I know that there is something wrong, I can see it in her eyes, but I don't know what, and then I'm falling, falling back down again, all the way down, and I...
   I'm eight, now. I'm in the kitchen, eating my dinner. Mum comes home. She's tired. Unspeaking, she walks past me, and into her room. She locks the door behind her. Mum is tired a lot nowadays. I understand why. Money isn't easy to make, but I need to eat. But lately, she's been getting more tired. And sometimes, when she's tired, she gets cranky, and she hits me, and yells at me, and I cry, but I still love her, and this time, this time...
   This time I'm thirteen. It's Tuesday. My watch reads 4:36. I'm standing in front of my house. An ambulance is parked nearby. There are police officers and paramedics everywhere. One of them approaches me.
   She says, "Go home. You can't come in here."
   I say, "I live here."
   She says, "Is the woman who lives here your mother?"
   I nod.
   She takes a deep breath, and gives me the bad news. I already know.
   They found her in the kitchen, next to half a jar of sleeping pills. From far away, I can hear the paramedic talking in muted tones; she's asking me about my father: who he is, where he is, how to get in touch with him. I tell her that I don't have one.
   Sleep is coming for me again. I try to fight it. Too late.
   There are no dreams.

   I'm woken by muffled sobbing. Somewhere nearby, there is a woman crying hysterically; mourning over a lost child, perhaps, or a lost friend, or parent, or lover. Who knows? I stand up, and stumble as blood rushes into my head. My legs are numb and stiff. My neck is sore. I look around. The fat man who was sitting next me is no longer there, so I stretch, and refresh myself at the water dispensor.
   A nurse walks out briskly from around the corner. She stops when she catches sight of me.
   "Ah. You're awake," she declares.
   "Yeah. Can I see my, uh, the patient?" I say, massaging throbbing neck with one hand.
   "Yes, he's in a critical but stable condition." She flicks through the clipboard she is holding. "I take it you are the patient's son?"
   "I guess so. That's what the DNA tests said, apparently."
   "Oh. I take it you're not close to your father?"
   I chuckle. "Yeah, I suppose so. Never met him before."
   "Oh." There is a moment of awkward silence. The nurse, sensing that she was on a delicate subject, opts for a change of topic.
   "So. Your ... father, is in room 38A."
   "Where's that, then?"
   "Don't worry, I'll take you there. Are you ready?"
   "No. But I guess it's now or never."
   She leads the way through the empty corridors, while I trail a few steps behind her. As we walk, she starts telling me about my father's condition. The car crash was a tragedy. All in all, three people were killed. He was the only survivor, but not much better off. He had suffered severe concussions and spinal injuries, and a pipe at impaled him through one side of his ribcage...
   35A. I feel nervous. My heart starts beating faster. The nurse keeps talking, saying that the doctors managed to resusitate him, and his heartbeat and respiration are kept working by mechanical means, but it is possible that a total necrosis of the celebral neurons could have resulted from loss of blood flow and oxygenation...
   36A. I have second thoughts. Is this really necessary? The man I am going to visit had no intention of ever seeing me; he was the one who walked out before I could remember what he looked like. Why should I visit him? I can still hear the nurse talking; the patient is likely already brain-dead, although if he's lucky, it'll only be a case of persistant vegetative state. If doctors declare the former, then life support will be discontinued, and cardiac death will be allowed to occur...
   37A. My heart is pounding in my throat. What would I see, when I walked into that room? I tell myself not to be afraid. The nurse's voice sounds distant, and every step feels like a mile.
   38A. A voice in my head tells me that it's still not too late to turn back. It barely registers. I walk into the room, and meet my father.
   But all I see is a broken, shrivelled old man, wrapped in bloodsoaked bandages and hooked into a bulky machine beside his bed by tubes and needles. Had there been some sort of mistake? Maybe the DNA test had lied after all. Maybe there had been a mix-up with the room numbers, and my father was really next door, or on another floor, snoring away gently...
   No. He's definitely my father, for within his features I see fragments of my own. The curvature of his brow, the coarseness of his lips, the width of his nose - these were all features I see in the mirror every morning, features that had first belonged to him. Instantly, I feel a burning sensation rising in my chest, but it is not hatred, as I thought it would be, but rather a deep sense of shock. I felt robbed. How could this man, his body shattered with both injuries and age, have possibly been the one who walked out without looking back one night in Spring? How could he have caused me all the suffering I've been through, the people I've lost, the childhood I never had? How? I force myself to hate him, but to my disgust I find that instead I pity him. The flood of emotions suddenly overwhelms me, and I can't take anymore. Pushing the nurse aside, I flee into the solace of the hallway.

   Under cold, artificial lighting, I take deep breaths and clear my head. I tell myself that this is the man who's responsible for what my life has become, that he's the reason I grew up without a father, that he's the reason that ...
   And yet I find myself feeling sympathetic. Whether he is my father or not, he is still here, body mashed up by plastic and metal and quickly failing him, while his mind is trapped in wondrous oblivion. He's an ancient creature who has finally reached the end of the path, but there is nobody there to see him into the clearing. Dying, alone, in a world he no longer understands. Nobody deserves that. Not even him. I find myself remembering something my mother had told me once, when I was ten, or eleven. She took me by the shoulders, squeezing until it hurt, and looked me in the eyes. And she said, "You can live for as long as you want. You can go and make money, and start a family, and look for God, and maybe you'll find Him. But at the end of the day, if you're not happy, you're not really living at all."
   And all of a sudden, I know what I have to do.
   When I re-enter the room, the nurse is still there. I ask her to leave my father and I alone, and she complies, leaving the room briskly. I take a seat next to the bed, and take his hand in mine. Should I utter any last words? Probably best not to. The moment is enough, and it will all be over soon. I take one last look at the man who sired me, and think, So this is how it all ends, huh? Bet you never saw it coming, did you?
   But, of course, there's no reaction; he lies there, as ever, the only sign of life being a mechanical hiss and the gentle rising and falling of his chest. Sighing, I reach over to the oxygen tank, and fumble for the switch.
   The 'click' is barely audible, but nonetheless deafening.
   There is a moment of terror, and his eyelids flicker open, directed by a deep, basic instinct which even car-crashes could not touch. His body begins to thrash about like a puppet, driven by invisible hands that want one more frantic dance. His empty eyes meet mine. I hold him tight, and whisper words of reassurance that he never hears. Then spasms become more violent, and for a horrifying instant I wonder if I had made a mistake, that he had only been asleep and I had killed him. But then the thrashing stops, and I am alone, the deafening silence permeated only by the shrill, constant whining of machines as they tell me what I already know.
   I feel cold.