The Dead Girls

And at the last possible moment, when he should’ve been dead, when he shouldn’t have been able to say anything at all, he spoke.  Pulled Chris down by the collar, blew hot breath into his ear.  Hot death-breath.

“Go tonight,” he’d whispered, his words garbled by the tube in his throat.  “Go catch one for me, ’cause I’ll never get to catch one again.  And if I could be anywhere tonight, that’s where, sitting in the boat on the lake with the whole world around me.  That’s living.  Promise me you’ll go.  Promise to catch one for me.”

“I promise, Dad, I promise.  And I love you.”

Soon after: the order, the decree, the command.  The machines being turned off.  The tube being extracted, the convulsions, the three hours it took him to die.

Now Chris is crying.  Christ’s sake and goddamn, there’s proof of the afterlife not seventy yards away and here he is bawling like a baby.

Eventually he returns to his task, making sure the worm is secured, standing, casting out.  The hook drops into the water, and he sits, opens a beer.  He’s going to get drunk, he’s decided.





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This is me: home-writer, book-reader, dog-lover and occasional poet. I make this website to share my and my friends texts with You, dear Reader. Please: read carefully, don't be scary, upgrade your mood and be king and leave your comment. :)