The Father, The Son

This was written for my Craft of Fiction class. The idea was to express the feelings of a character by way of descriptions of and interactions with the objects in a room.

The room was cold, despite the sunny summer weather outside. Hospitals always feel like this, Joe thought, there’s just something about them that gives you chills. The small clock radio on the nightstand flashed the incorrect time. Someone must have unplugged it on accident. Doesn’t matter all that much now, I guess, Joe thought solemnly. It had been two hours since he arrived at the hospital, but to him, it felt like much more.

He shifted his gaze around the room, enveloped in the uncomfortable silence that seemed to permeate the room and even his body. The tissue box on the table was empty and it appeared as though someone had crushed it somehow. It shouldn’t have bothered him, he wasn’t the crying type, but there was something comforting about having a box of tissues nearby.

Eventually he got bored with looking around the room and was forced to shift his gaze to the small, fragile body that lay in the bed. He shivered again. The body in the bed was his father’s, but even he could barely see the similarities anymore. His father had always been so strong, so gruff. This shriveled frame couldn’t possibly be the same man. A wet sheen appeared over Joes eyes and again he had to look away.

On the wall was a painting of cows standing around in a field. What nonsense, Joe thought, cows in a field? This is art? He knew his father would have said the same thing. Art was not important to him. It was a luxury that he had never been able to afford, and that he never appreciated.

Joe slumped in the chair by the bed, the worn out cushion and wooden back providing little comfort to his exhausted body. He shifted restlessly. Sleep was obviously not an option. He debated turning on the small TV that hung in the corner. He needed a distraction. He searched the room for the remote. He thought he had seen it on the night stand, between the pitcher of water and the bowl of fruit, but it was nowhere to be found. It figures. I guess it’s better that way. I don’t want to disturb him.

He grabbed an apple from the bowl, examining it for a long time before taking a bite. The skin was firm and full of color. He admired the color of the apple, as well as the still youthful color of his own skin. He used to look like this, he thought, a long time ago. He shook his head to try to gain control of his thoughts. He took a bite of the apple. The taste was unexpectedly sour and not at all what he had wanted. He threw the apple in the small plastic trash can and spit the mouthful of the sour fruit out as well. What more could I expect? Nothing else is going right today, is it?

He lifted his gaze back to the bed and noticed his father looking at him through barely parted eyelids. He smiled, his father smiled back. A moment passed by, the room felt as if it had been filled with water. Joe felt light, but at the same time felt a pressure pushing in on him from all sides. He walked to the bed and took his father’s hand. With that, his father closed his eyes, and the steady rhythmic beat of the heart monitor began to fade.