Terminal
“Is it …?” The word stuck in her throat.
The doctor nodded, then said, “There are things we can do . . .”
Mary’s thoughts raced from herself to her two young daughters who sat in the waiting room with their grandmother.
“How long do I have?”
“Six months. Maybe a year.”
“I can’t tell them.”
“Then, don’t.”
“What?”
“Lie,” the doctor said.
“I’d rather die.”
“Indeed, you will.”
Mary strode to the window and threw herself out, wondering as she passed each of the ten floors how it was going to feel at the bottom.
© Kathryn Atkins 2007
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