You Die Alone

My father died alone on a hospital bed on a Monday morning, while I was at a group meeting at work. When I saw him on Sunday he was essentially a living corpse, and looked like those pictures of Auschwitz victims that were being thrown into mass graves by the hundreds. You know, the mouth open, the eyes open in a sunken face. Skin and bone.
The face of death. No wonder everyone turns to religion at the end. It's quite a bitter pill to take knowing that this is how it all ends up. Oh, you'll meet again in the afterlife. Gimme a break. Lying in some fucking hospital bed, the hourly dose of morphine under your tongue, hoping a nurse will come in and swab your fucking dry mouth, waiting for the last breath. There's something to be said about a gun to your head...or a cyanide ampoule, like Himmler and Goering did. AT least in my case, I won't have to worry about any visitors. There will be nobody left. There were 7 people at the funeral. That's 7 more than will be at mine.