My Dead Grandpa 🥺 who had a stroke

My Grandpoppy's Death 🥺

...

Grandpoppy Styles had resumed his job at the Manchester Youth Centre for Unruly Minds (MYCUM) when he heard the familiar footsteps of one American photographer gorl's ugly shoes.

"Hey Styles!" Aven greeted. "I bought some new sneakers after you rudely burned my old ones. These are grey, to match your luscious hair."

Grandpoppy turned around and tried to walk away, but Aven grabbed him by the arm and tugged him outside. It took so much of her effort that it nearly triggered her asthma.

"Lets share a cigarette!" she panted.

"Smoking is bad, you know," rasped Grandpoppy Styles. "And you have asthma. Why do you smoke?"

"Because I like to feel like I'm suffocating. It gives me a great rush!"

"No, you don't like it, you choke every time. Why do you really smoke?" Grandpoppy continued his interrogation.

Aven began to get antsy. She gazed at him with her erratic eyeballs and huffed, "I'm not entertaining whatever therapy session you're trying to have with me."

"Aven, I'm literally your therapist. You came to see me at MYCUM?"

Aven began to cry and cry and cry, her soul spiralling into darkness. Finally she confessed. "I-I smoke when I'm s-sad. And t-today I was really really really really sad. M-my abusive boyfriend w-with the s-small dick used to b-blindfold me and b-blow smoke into my m-mouth while we h-hooked up in burning b-buildings. So w-when I'm really really really really sad I-I like to s-smoke to be r-reminded of feeling like I'm d-dying."

Grandpoppy's vision blurred as tears formed in his eyes. Aven's confession had touched his spirit, leaving him lightheaded and dizzy. Somehow, he was caring for the dumb American twat. He was so overcome with emotion that he felt at a loss for words.

"I-I can help you," he stuttered. "That's the p-purpose of MYCUM. I-I will support you through all of MYCUM's s-services."

"Thanks d-daddy. B-but sometimes I-I don't wanna be happy. Just l-leave me here and let m-me be s-sad."

"G-good riddance," barked Grandpoppy Styles. He stumbled back into the MYCUM lobby.

Grandpoppy didn't know that he was exhibiting several telltale signs of a stroke: numbness, blurred vision, instability, dizziness, difficulty speaking, and changes in mood. Thanks to Aven, he thought it was his emotional reaction to her heartfelt confession, and didn't give it a second thought.

Thanks to Aven, Grandpoppy carried out his evening routine, and headed home.

Thanks to Aven, Grandpoppy went to bed next to his Grandmummy Louise body pillow, thinking some sleep would clear his head.

Thanks to Aven, Grandpoppy let a green sneaker wearing, mentally unstable, cheeky little photographer gorl (who has asthma), convince him that the numbness in his arm was just from her tight grip when she dragged him outside.

Thanks to Aven, Grandpoppy Styles had a stroke in his sleep that awful night, he first day of October. And died. 

... 

🥺