How could it have come to this?
Now it was all about to be lost.
A Simon Marty guitar stood on its stand in a corner of the room where Denny could see it. A gift from his parents on his 21st birthday. Just having it there was soothing. In his fractured mind he could hear his favorite pieces and it helped him to block out the pain. Now the only thing that helped was the morphine that slowly dripped into his body from a pump via a needle in his arm. At the end of the bed lay his puppy, a black and white cross breed called Simon. Curled up and fast asleep. Denny's lovely nurse had allowed Simon to be here.
It was time...
And with an abrupt finality the eyes fluttered closed, the body sank back, the life dissipated. Denny was dead. Simon the puppy let out a grief stricken yelp, leapt from the bed and disappeared down the hall outside the room.
Copyright © 2009 Dean Mayes