The End

As I sit dying I refuse to call 911. I check my heart rate and it's doing double-time. My skin is on fire and my left side won't move.

I thumb through the phone book for the name of my hospital. It starts with "University" and there must be eight pages of numbers that are University something or other. After the longest three minutes I can recall in quite a many years, I find the right listing.

I check it and double check it to make sure, but don't dial. It's not that my right side won't work, it's that since my left side has locked up, I can't open my mouth to speak even if I make the call. It's amazing at this stage that my epilepsy has allowed me to remain conscious. This time, of all...

I wonder if I should write a message at all. Last words, Marx said so accurately, are for fools who haven't said enough. Instead, I will close the door to my bedroom and lie down. My phone will be between the pages of the directory just in case I decide to use it, but I know I won't.

I think of a family who regards me only from obligation, of brothers who forget me when they meet someone more demanding, and of a girl who eagerly settled with someone who loved her less so many times. To them all I have been utterly replaceable. I have been a useless waste. My fingerprints are nowhere.

No, I will not call the hospital. I'd rather just die alone and not burden those who have never had the strength to return my love.