He sat regally atop the immaculate sheets, a man of great power and even greater pride, his façade an impenetrable fortress. I couldn’t help but wonder in amazement how, even in the humbling hospital gown, he still managed to be surrounded with that air of invincibility. Truly, the man’s immortal. Or at least I thought he was.
Weary and emaciated… the ghosts of his past wrongdoings had finally caught up with him. The man whose word was the law, now an easy prey to doctors, herbalists, priests, faith healers and practically any peddler who claimed they hold the cure. At one point, it was a sort of twisted amusement for me to witness the fall of a god. The man who drank beer like water, now gulped down glassfuls of carrot juice. Cancer of the liver stage four, with metastasis to the brain. A massive fortune was spent to exhaust all therapeutic options on a desperate attempt to prolong his existence.
I stood to help him, he waved me away. He won’t even let me see him suffer. I waited for the apology that I was so sure was to arrive… his mournful remorse for his treatment of us. It never came. And all I could think of was ‘Great.’ Now how was he supposed to know that I cared for him. That in spite of my sensible faculties , I willed for him to live. How was he to know of the late nights I’d spent researching about his illness… scoured the earth – well, by studying – for that elusive, possibly non-existent elixir. I said nothing. I was too proud. I’m his daughter after all.
While it was true that I couldn’t wait to rid myself of him and his tyranny, somehow, I felt like it was too early… too unjust, even for him.
I’m tethered to him. Even three years after and six feet under, here he is, the subject of my story. I guess the damned bastard’s immortal after all.