I Unplugged It

New Years, yes yes.

I only made one resolution, and that is to write a story that is at least 80,000 words long by the end of the year. I hope I at least manage to write out the plot though, because I don't think I'm gonna' end up being able to do this.

Anyway, I have recently been writing some short stories (like, some are only 500 words long) based off some writing prompts. As I don't really seem to post much here, I thought I'll start to show them [to my really big audience].

This first one is quite melancholy and is one that I actually really enjoyed writing. I like it because it's small and simple.

The writing prompt for this one was that the last sentence had to be "I unplugged it."

(Please don't steal this.)

*

Outside, the world was dampened by the rain. I can hear it gently pattering against the window. Beyond the window I saw nothing; it is covered in mist, blurring the world into an insignificant green smudge.

But the rain, it seems, stays with me.

All over the window I saw them. Little droplets. Some fallen down, the water collecting at the bottom.

Why, I wondered, why do I focus on the rain at times like these? And why is it always raining?

“Focus, boy,” he said, bringing me back to the real world. I heard the slow, steady beeping of his monitor. Deep within, I hear his voice complaining every time it spoke. Was it me? Was it the illness?

“You do this a lot,” he said. “Look at me, I’m speaking to you.”

I turned to him. He is old now, I saw. The hair on his head once thick, was thin, his bald skin visible; covered in what looked like coffee stains from a mug, lifted. Those eyes, deep in their sockets, I saw an anger. So blue, so angry. Was it me? Was it the illness?

“I’m dying, son,” he muttered. “I can see you’ve gathered that.”

Beep. Beep.

“I have lived my life. It’s done. I’m happy.” His head tilted, regarding me. “How old are you now?” he asked me. How could my dad forget my age, I ask myself? Do I disappoint you, father?

“Thirty,” I told him.

His head remained tilted.

Beep. Beep.

“Thirty,” he stated, his eyes looking at his messy bedsheets. He’d been here for weeks now, just sitting. It was rare that he chose to spoke - more so to me.

“Thirty,” he muttered, again. Was he remembering an old time? Do you remember that day, father? Do you remember when you were thirty?

If he was trying to start a conversation, he had failed. He never often spoke to me. I was surprised when I got the call, asking me to come to the hospital. You never talk to me, father, so why should I?

Beep. Beep.

“That beeping,” he murmured, his trail of thought interrupted. “Make it stop.”

I looked over to the heart monitor. Lines that moved up every time his heart beated. Why does your heart still beat, father? Did it ever? Did your heart ever once beat for me?

Beep. Beep.

“Turn of the machine, Tom,” he told me.

I sighed. I then reached down behind the machine and found the plug. I took a moment, a moment to look back at my dying father. He is old now. A corpse waiting in its death bed. Skin wrapped around a skull that contained a failing brain.

I looked at the window. The non-existent world beyond. Forever there, always too far.

I looked back at the heart monitor.

Beep. Beep.

I unplugged it.