If I lay on that big, white bed for along time, will you help me find my Father? If I put tubes in my arm and didn't eat for a week, would you show me where he is? Will the robot standing next to my head feed me coordinates through rhythmic beeps and blips and red flashing lights? I will do that. I will shrink in my bed and let my hair shed off like snake skin and let my skin wrinkle like I had been in the bath tub for too long and leave the windows wide open so my children can watch. My lungs will burn out and you'll put a mask on my face and add one more tube to the collection in the crook of my elbow, adding more weight as I lose mass just like my Father. And after countless times of being told, "You have his smile," I will truly know what they meant when my lips become sandpaper and my tongue becomes parchment and my teeth hollow out in gradients of pale moon yellow. The iron from my blood will add zest to every wheezing hack and trickle down my throat like the morning dew watering the growing weeds in my lungs. I will do nothing but blink my crusting, glazed eyes when my family cries at my bedside. I will not flinch as their shouted cries echo the hallway or look up as they throw their hands to the sky, begging to a name I had long turned away from. Would I find my Father if the flesh of my cheeks sunk into its bones and my face was contoured by the ugly shadows in its every crevice? Even then, I would not find my Father. I would not find my Father until the white coats stand over my bed, prodding me with pens and magnifying glasses and stinging needles, and finally tell my family there is no chance. I would nto be my Father until I refuse to cry or scream or become angered or say goodbye. I will be relieved that after countless months of being dead, they finally declare my pulse gone.
I wrote this for my ATYP English class last year. It is not from my perspective.