Be Very Fine

a little exercise we did in class that i'm hoping to turn into a whole story

Thursday night the daughter drove to the hospital in the old neighborhood. The gush of wind as she walked through the doors served to both rid her of any contaminates and also to whip her hair about her face, the raspy tendrils sticking to the corners of her mouth. She stopped in the lobby face to face with her sister, a mirror image of herself.
“You finally came. He’s on his way out,” said the sister.
“What room’s he in?” asked the daughter.
“333,” replied her twin.
She breezed past her sister in a blur of hair and perfume, leaving her twin to shed tears in the lobby alone. She stepped into the empty elevator and pounded the door close button until the steel mouth of the doors shut her in. She rifled through her purse and took out the black and pink box of Camel No. 9’s. She had the cigarette between her crimson lips and the flame of her lighter sparked before she realized she was in a hospital. She replaced the cigarette in line with the others just as she stepped out onto the third floor.
The stench of antiseptic and shit assaulted her and she prayed for the smell of burning tobacco and menthol. She followed the signs and walked down the right corridor towards room 333. She could hear him coughing from down the hall, the hacking choke of him drowning in mucus followed by the gasping wheeze as his chest muscles became exhausted. With a final resolution and the warmest smile she could manage she stepped through the door.
It was worse than she could have imagined. He lay in bed, his top half propped up as his head sagged to the side, blurry eyes fixed on the door. His gown was open enough to reveal the crisscrossing scars, like a treasure map of stitches on his chest. Tubes and wires flowed from his body making him look like a brittle marionette. She stepped towards the bed and put her hand in his spindly fingers, his disease ravaged body too weak to squeeze back. His head lifted immediately, swinging his gaze towards her face.
“I’m here, dad,” she said trying to sound consoling.
She knew that she was there to watch him die. She looked into his eyes for something of the father she used to know. The medication and breathing tubes made this impossible. The only sound in the room was the slight blip from the heart monitor, ticking off the last moments of his life.
“I love you, dad,” she said as a final farewell.
Her father raised himself up from the pillow, leaned towards his daughter. She moved in close enough to hear. With his dying breath he spit in her face. The heart monitor crashed. Doctors and nurses flooded into the room, screaming words and phrases she did not understand. She had always been good at fading into the background and took this opportunity to do so.
They didn’t seem to notice she was in the room as they tried tirelessly to resuscitate him. When it was all over she looked on as the still warm spittle dribbled down her cheek. The doctor noticed her now that he had unplugged the machinery attached to her father’s body.
“I’m sorry, there’s nothing more we could do to save him. It was just his time. Now you need to stay strong, for the rest of your family,” said the doctor as he handed her a tissue. She took it. Let them think it was tears that ran down her face. She walked out of the room and down the hall, lighting a cigarette on the way.