16/02/2018, 08:51 pm
I ran out of thoughts.
For the past weeks, I opened up this copybook and held my pencil, but I couldn't write.
I don't have thoughts except those of darkness and pain and death.
The hospital became my second home, I'm almost always there.
And while I'm writing this, I'm sitting on a cold chair waiting for the doctor to call for my turn.
There's a guy sitting opposite to me, he keeps on staring every once in a while.
He's bald and he looks around 16 years old. His eyes are blue like the ocean and his lips are white and chapped. His eyebrows are almost invisible. He's bored and he smiled at me when I caught him staring. His smile is beautiful.
He's sick too.
My name is called, I have to go.
YOU ARE READING
One Last Miracle
Short StoryDying. That's how she is. Dying. -- Miracles happen and one of them is the desire to write her thoughts in a worn out copybook. So she does and she hopes when she's gone, anyone would find it. That's the only way to ensure she won't be forgotten.
