Death, 1 tbsp a day
He sat there, motionless. He couldn’t turn his face around. There was a large swath of bandaging on the right part of his neck that didn’t allow him to.
He had shrunk in size. He was a pale shadow of himself. He wanted to ask me so many questions but his voice had almost been taken away.
His food was abominable. His chewing made you cringe. His entire body had been reduced to a barely functional version of its vibrant original form.
His eyes spoke of pain. His frail legs were giving away. His wrinkles spoke not of the many years he had lived for but the year in which he was dying.
He was counting backwards. His soul was betraying him. His memories were trying to take him back to where he could never go again.
He had a tablet. He took an injection into his arm. He then gulped down the potion of death from a tiny little bottle, 1 tbsp of it.
He was being taken away and we just sat there watching and thinking of who he had been.
