George Was Dying

George was dying. The coldness of the air outside his car and the warm interior caused the windows to frost. From his position he could see the sky, though blurred from the frost. It was blue, a few clouds here and there and the occasional bird. He wasn’t quite sure what kind of bird he saw.

The needle remained in his arm, his veins thoroughly infected, his heart slowing. He was 300 miles away from his family, a family that worried for him, that cared for him and wanted him the best that life could give. His family did not know that he was dying.

George was a father. He had one son, a young man finishing his senior year in high school. Mature for his age, more mature than George in fact. George had seen him a month ago, he saw his face sunken and eyes reddened at seeing the man who raised him now in a decrepit state. This was no shape for a father to be in. Dads should be strong, dads should be a model for their kids. His son could join him in dying in his car, there was room in the front and a better view but his son had better plans.

Outside the car, which was parked at a McDonald’s, other people drove by. They didn’t know George, nor would they care to know him. They weren’t aware that inside the car with the frost covered windows, lay a father dying. Not a real proper place for a father to die, but George was no proper father.

His son wept for him. He saw his arm, it wasn’t a kind sight. The arm that once held him as an infant now only held needles, dirty needles. His son hated needles, always had. George cried at this sight, he promised he’d change. He didn’t want to hurt his son, that was not what a father should do. But George was not a proper father.

It was Tuesday morning when George was dying. His son was in class. He was writing an essay in English, he had prepared for it over the last few days and was fully confident he’d achieve the maximum score. George didn’t think much of his son, or his family on this day. He saw the sky, it was blue, the clouds and the occasional bird. He still couldn’t tell what kind of bird he saw.

George lived in his car so it was only fit for him to pass there. He no longer had a home, the job he started, gotten with the help of his father who believed he’d make George better again, he quit yesterday. He didn’t quit officially, he of course didn’t show up after the first few days of working, so he wasn’t there himself to tell his boss he quit. Yesterday he merely stopped believing he’d show back up and make things better. George was good at creating false images to throw off others.

It was now starting to get cold. The imbalance created due to the warmth of the car and the chill outside had ceased as George’s body no longer put off the heat it did, the heat he warmed his son with as he held him on cold nights, no longer did this heat exist. Through the window he saw the sky. It was blue, there were clouds and he saw the occasional bird fly by. He could finally make out what kind of bird it was. It was a robin.

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