By William Mangieri
Copyright 2012 by William Mangieri
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I hate hospitals. Hate everything about them.
At the moment, I was hating the incessant, rodent-like scratching of the pens of that ridiculous contraption they had placed by Father’s bed. Of what use was charting his heartbeats, if that is what the scribblings on the paper were supposed to represent? Either his heart was beating, or it was not.
He lay in the hospital bed, wires and tubes criss-crossing on their way to their various connections. He did not look good - paler than usual, almost like one of those poorly done wax figures at Madame Tussauds - dead looking things that had never been alive. Almost as though they had chosen to use bloodless corpses for their models, although I had heard...