Oblivion

B| Death of a father

[eleven years earlier]

Third Person

"No, Matteo, we're not reading another story," Domenico said sternly, closing the book. With sad eyes and his thumb in his mouth, his little brother looked at him, but Domenico knew the game, and to Matteo's dismay, he had mastered it. "Come on, lie down, and I'll tuck you in, okay?" With a pout, Matteo lay down and said nothing more. Domenico shook his head as he covered him up.

When he left the room, he noticed that there was still light coming from Riccardo's room. It seemed that Vito was still with him and Valentino was out with friends. 'Good,' he thought to himself and went up one more floor. It was quiet up there, just like in the room he entered.

His father lay in the care bed, his frail body seemingly diminished by the stroke. His once strong frame had been reduced to a shell of what it had been. His head rested on the pillow, propped up slightly, while his eyes, distant and unfocused, stared blankly at the ceiling. His right arm lay motionless by his side, with little muscle tone left, the skin pale and fragile. The left arm, though somewhat more responsive, trembled slightly with every movement. His mouth, slightly open, betrayed an inability to speak, and his breathing was shallow, as if each inhale took more effort than the last. The gentle hum of the machines beside him marked the rhythm of his existence now, and every few moments, his chest would rise and fall with the effort of breathing.

His legs, once steady and strong, were now curled in a position that seemed unnatural, the result of prolonged immobility. His hands, though still capable of small motions, seemed incapable of grasping anything, as if the connection between mind and body had been severed by the stroke's cruel aftermath. The only sound in the room, besides the quiet beeping of the monitors, was the soft rustle of the sheets as Domenico adjusted them, trying to make his father as comfortable as possible, even though comfort seemed almost impossible.

"Hello, Dad." Eyes like his looked at him, and for a brief moment, it seemed as if he recognized him. Then, they lost focus again. Domenico swallowed hard, he wanted to reach out, to say something that would bring his father back, even if just for a second-something to bridge the distance between them, something to make his father see him again. But he knew it would be no use. Not now. Not when his father was so far away, trapped in a body that no longer listened to him, a mind that was slipping through his fingers like sand.

He pulled the chair closer to the bedside, sitting quietly, watching as the slow rise and fall of his father's chest became the only thing that marked the passage of time. The beeping of the monitor, the soft murmur of the oxygen machine-it all felt so distant, so detached from the world outside this small room.

His father's hand lay limp at his side, the fingers curled slightly as though reaching for something, but never quite finding it. Domenico hesitated, then gently took his father's hand in his own. The skin was thin, fragile, almost papery. He squeezed it lightly, wishing his father could feel it, could somehow know that he was there, that he hadn't left him. But the response, if there ever was one, never came. The hand remained still in his grip.

It was a strange kind of grief, one that crept up on him slowly, silently, the weight of it settling on his chest, pressing down harder with every minute that passed. He had known this day would come-he had prepared himself for it-but no amount of preparation could ever make it any easier. The knowledge that his father was slipping away, bit by bit, that the life Domenico had once known was fading, was a burden he knew he would have to carry.

"Please." His father's eyes regained some focus, a reminder of the promise he had given his father. The words felt too final, too heavy, but Domenico knew: his father had already begun to let go, and Domenico was left standing in the wreckage of everything they had once shared-grieving not just the loss of his father, but the loss of the man he had once been, the man who had always been there, strong and resolute, for him.