The Last Goodbye

It's the thought that counts

The train sped through the night; trees and mountains raced past. The foggy air snatched smoke from its stack and whisked it down past the caboose; the rails grumbled out the miles on the track below. Yet, in all this headlong rush, Morris felt like he was standing still, marking time, losing the race.

The phone call had been urgent back in Minneapolis: "She's dying, Dad. If you want to get here before she goes, you better come quick."

This had been coming for several months. The doctors quoted some unpronounceable cause, but when it was translated into plain English, it meant Melinda's organs were shutting down one by one. Even now, as Morris raced through the night, Melinda was being kept alive through dialysis, respirators, and IVs. "She's dying..."

The train station in Kasstown, Arkansas, was a miserable huddle of a building, barely able to cast enough light to see by as the locomotive's brakes steamed and hissed. Morris hooked a cab for the two mile drive down Highway 14 to Our Lady of Saints.

Jerrod met him at the door. "Glad you made it, Dad. I know how much you wanted to be here." Morris nodded, and they entered the narrow dim halls of the hospital. They came to a rest at room 118.

"Wait here," Morris said. He went into the room and closed the door.

He stood at the bedside looking down at the frail woman. He leaned close and whispered in her ear, "Melinda." Her eye twitched. She could hear him then; good. "I've never had the opportunity to say this to you before, my dear, but..."

He pinched the oxygen and whispered even more quietly, "I hope they have sweet dreams in hell, you witch!"

He held the air hose closed very long indeed.

NOTES: ▼

Word Count: 300
Submitted for "Daily Flash Fiction Challenge" 
Prompt: Use the words phone, rest, and door