A Displaced Piece of Writing

After reading an intense tale of a man who passes away with an unbidden tumor in his brain and leaves his family behind, I wrote a short piece describing what the daughter and mother do following his death. The daughter is an alcoholic who, in the story that I wrote, develops a tumor similar to her father’s and dies.

As the wife and the daughter the man who passed pulled out of the funeral, silence quickly commenced upon their car. The wife began to recall all of the nefarious actions the daughter had committed since she came to live in their place. As the car continued over several bumps in the road, the wife’s thoughts were interrupted by an unexpected request.

            “Can you drop me off out here?” the daughter inquired, gesturing to this long stretch of empty road with scattered stores in the area. When the wife questioned her, she began to speak about how she didn’t want to stay in their abode anymore, and that she had rented out an apartment nearby that she would be staying in from then on. It was a suspicious answer, but nevertheless the wife let the daughter get out and trudge down the sidewalk. After staring at her for a few seconds, the wife pulled away, once again overcome with her own thoughts.

            The daughter walked through the swathe of concrete and eventually entered a recognizable bar, near-vacant. The tavern, similar to the street it was on, had few people in it. As the bartender poured her a glass of mediocre beer, she began to feel drowsy and overcome with exhaustion. She soon drowned away her sorrows and the tarnish left on her mind by the funeral, allowing her thoughts of her father to eventually dissolve. A full hour later, a taxi was called and she was driven back to her father’s home. The wife would be surprised, yes, but the daughter would have a place to stay.  Her lie would surely be forgiven and forgotten.

            After paying the driver, the daughter gingerly stepped out of the cab and began to drunkenly stagger towards the door in front of her. Soon enough, some unseen nefarious object got into her way and obstructed her leg. She stumbled and fell, cracking her head onto the pavement not one yard away from the front door to haven.


            The beeping of the emergency room’s machines awoke her. Everything seemed blurry, similar to a hangover without the constant puking sensation. Sporadic thoughts came to the daughter, one with the inquiry if her father had heard these noises at the time of his incident.

            As she looked to her right side, she noticed the woman sitting in the chair next to her bed. The wife cradled her head in her hands, with occasional tears dripping through.

            “There’s some bad news,” she said after noticing that the daughter was awake and watching her. Her demeanor was finally giving out; her husband was dead. What could be worse?

            “What is it? Is it medical? I think I may have a concussion,” the daughter spoke, the haziness forcing her head back onto the pillow. She tried to speak more, to even offer comfort to the wife, but her breath suddenly shortened and she was forced to halt speaking.

            “You’ve got a tumor. Similar to your father’s, if not worse. A stage two, called….” The daughter stopped listening instantly as her mind convulsed again. The same death-kissed illness her father had carried in his cursed brain, the same that caused him to perish. Now she was about to feel it kill her.

            “The doctors are saying it’ll soon become pretty painful. You’re on heavy medication now that you’ve been flushed of alcohol.” Her brain tuned back into the current state, and she listened to the current conversation. Eventually a doctor entered the room and shooed the wife away. She called out to the daughter for one final time, and told her that she was sorry and she should’ve taken better care of her after the funeral had ended, left the room and presumably the hospital itself to leave the daughter to her own pondering.

            The doctor told her she had a few choices. She could leave the room after the medication wore off, she could stay and live for around a month until she died a painful death, or she could choose to end her own life.

            The daughter viewed the options as these: she could escape the confinement and live with lesser drugs until the pain became too much, or she could draw out her death and suffering to the very last moment. Or, she could meet her father and take back the false words of “making up for six years in six months”.

            As another sharp pain entered her mind, she told the doctor with a slight shriek her choice. “Kill me,” the daughter gasped, “End my life today. I have nobody.”

            Nearly two hours later, her vision began to fade and the controlled poison entered her veins and body. Her eyes shot open one last time, and her last thought was of the uncanny resemblance between the doctor and her father standing over her.



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