I am in the house owned by your hospital where my son tells me I’m to be injected with a sickness to fight the sickness I was born with.  in relation to my previous longevity, my son stays for only a short while.  as he leaves he wipes the frost from inside the front window so I can see my mother’s open mouth.  the kindness my son shows me leans me against a wall and it is here I gather the strength to sleep standing up.  the man who lives with me is tolerably angry as my son’s face reminds him that he was once a great sketch artist.  he makes a promise to draw me in all my glory once I heal.  after hitting me, he blames it on the lack of furniture.  I stumble outside, not dramatically, and am shot by my mother, or by someone who heard me come in.