She closes her eyes, but one can’t say she did it herself. The machines she’s wired to scream her departure.
“Time of death, ten-oh-seven pm,” says the white coated man.
A young boy sitting in the pale waiting room is picked up by the drone of the heart monitor and carried to his mothers side.
The wrinkles running along her face aren’t just from the cancer, he likes to think that he caused some of them too.
The boy of 9 years looks at the doctor, aged 49, and says “She’s not sore anymore.”

