Carefully he tucked the snowflake patterned flannel sheets up around her chin.
His flattened palm against her forehead confirmed his worst fears.
As he explained where he was bound she concentrated on a spot above and to the
Right of his head where a piece of molding had torn loose and dangled listlessly.
Her wandering gaze concerned him, but he dared not turn his face from hers
As she wondered how long the house had been in such a state of disrepair.
Days? Months? Years, perhaps? Why did it matter now that he was leaving?
In spite of his reassurances, she knew she’d be gone before he returned.
“Coward,” she thought and continued contemplating the plaster.
Any time I’m sick I imagine this horrible scenario in which I’m left alone to die. Thank you, Stephen King for planting this morbid idea in my head.