Millions Millions

Your father died in the early afternoon. They found him gray skin and bones, wide haunted eyes, clotted with white. They found him in his filth. They found him covered in flies. They found him sprawled on the floor, a broken thing, the bruised flesh, the tangled sheets. And they knew he must have called for help. He must have struggled from the bed. He must have known the end as it tore at his chest. As it grinned from the shadows. He must have known the light dimming. He must have known the sounds of carrion birds thrashing and screaming and clattering. He must have called out in his wretched way, bellowed with his half-mouth, thrashed with what arms and legs he retained, until the final moment, when the jaws descended and all ceased to move.