The finish line

27th October 2015

There’s no easy way to say this. No nice words, no embellishments to make this situation better. I’m dying and there’s nothing I can do about it. There’s no cure, no hope for me to get well, to recover and go back home to my family. I’m stuck here. I’m a prisoner in this hospital bedroom, and there’s no escape. I know that I will spend my last day in here, my last breath will disappear into the air of this empty and dark room, as my body will lose its power.
The good thing is that I’m not afraid,  not anymore. I’ve embraced the fact that every night I can fall asleep and never wake up again. I know that I’m at the end of my journey in this world and even if I’d like to stay here a little longer, I’m ready to see the finish line.
The doctors say they see a happy sparkle in my eyes. When I look at myself in the mirror, I can see that too. The real problem is that I don’t see the same sparkle in the eyes of my family. Every time my wife comes to visit me, she pretends to be fine. I know that her laughs are fake and her smiles are forced. I know her too well not to understand that she wants me to see her happy, even if her happiness is a fraud. I hear her crying at the door every time she goes out of my room, not entirely ready to go home without me. Her feeble sobs of despair are like screams in my ears. Every time I listen to them I feel a knife in my heart, turning around to make my wound bleed more.
My son has never come to visit me instead. He says he can’t handle it, but I know the truth is that he doesn’t care about me anymore.
Maybe he never did, and I can not blame him. I was a terrible father. ©

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