white rose world

Life can be a drag if you are born in a world where you have no control over any of your actions. In a world where money controls everything and you can see it controlling you too, you can't push back against the overwhelming power the rich exude. You hear it in all the songs; you hear it everywhere you go—people asking why you are not this or that.

I feel exhausted, mostly mentally. from the ills of being me more than how sick I am of the world and its troubles.

Father Timothy had called me ungrateful during one of my confessions. He told me to be happy with the smallest things. He said it was the secret of life and the only thing that would make me appreciate who I am and who I will be.

I don't argue with Father Timothy; if he understood what I have been through, he would be quiet and allow my sins; he would beg God to make it easy for me.

I want to explain this to Father Timothy, who is seated in the next booth. I cannot tell him everything. God already knows everything.

I sit there, and we say the rosary together. I stand and leave the booth; there are others lined up to confess. I walked out of the church, my heart relieved. I have at least told someone about my life.

I hurried to my bike and rode to the general hospital. I left my dad alone for an hour. If mom found out, ‘oh I don't want to even think about it.

I got to the hospital, and I rushed to meet my dad in his room. I was sweating and panting heavily. He was just lying there with his eyes closed and several tubes plugged into his body. The doctors are saying he needs regular chemotherapy.

I think this is suffering and I would end it if I was in his shoes, but as a seventeen-year-old back,seventeen-year-old back I can't say much. I watched how empty and pale he looked. He used to be plump, and he used to radiate through the hardship with us. My mom was happy before, and I was happy even as life dealt with us daily.

Dad loved us, and he was never too tired to show it when he returned from the construction site where he worked.

A man walks into the room. I raise my eyes and look at him. He flashes a smile and asks, "How is your dad today?"

I don't know what to tell him. I am not the doctor; he is. He is supposed to tell me how my dad is doing.

He examines the machine connected to my dad before he leaves the room without a word. He returns and adjusts the machine, this time with a nurse by his side. She looked serious, but I wasn't alarmed because the doctor was still calm, and I knew deep down that my father would fight to be with us.

The doctor turned to look at me, a young man, and asked, “Where is your mother?" "She hasn't been coming since the first day, so I need to talk to her about some things.”

“She is at work; should I give you her number?”

“Don't worry, I will check the file and call her." "I was just hoping I would meet her here; I don't want to alarm her.”

“When does she get off,” he asked,

I look at him lost, not knowing when she gets off. I have been busy myself, and since we seldom meet these days, I don't know what to say.

“Don't worry,” he says, relieving me of my confusion. I could see pity in his eyes. I looked at my dad, and he said, “Don't worry.”

The doctor leaves. and my dad opens his eyes. He tries to smile, but it fades into a groan. He moves his hand, and I put mine in his. ``I am sorry, Dave,” he says, his voice breaking. "I am sorry you have to pass through this.”

“I went to see Father Timothy; he sent his regards." I told him, "Change the subject.”

He smiles and slowly turns his head, groaning as he utters to me, “Take care of your mother for me."

I feel my heart sink, I feel my head sway. I know what this is; he is trying to say goodbye, and he wants to leave.

Tears rolled down the sides of his eyes; tears rolled down my cheeks. I want to say something. And the only thing I could tell him was that he should wait for Mom to come.

As I stay there and watch him close his eyes, he says, “The box in the house, the one I said never to open, is now yours."

“I don't want it, open your eyes, father." "I don't want it to open your eyes.” My voice was cracking; it filled the room. I stand and rush out to the reception. I call the nurse, who rushes with them back to the room. He uses the phone in the room to place a call to the doctor.

My dad is lying still on the bed, with his eyes closed and his finger moving as his hand lies by his side. I brought out my cell phone and dialed my mom. “Mom, where are you?"

“Hello!

“Hello!!

I heard the operator tell me I was out of call credit. not now!! I yelled.

The doctor entered the room and after him, my mom.

She hugged me tight, pressing my head to her chest. It's all right, she says, "You are going to be fine, your dad is going to be fine."

The doctor says, “I am sorry Mrs. Thompson; there is nothing more we can do for him.”

I pull out of the hug to see my dad covered. My mom pulled me away from the room where she was crying, still in her work uniform. You could tell she had not rested for a long time.

She pulls me into another embrace before she collapses in my arms.

"Please, Mom!

Mom!!

"Please, mom.

"don't do this, mom!

"Please don't do this, mom!"

Dad, please wake up, mum, please wake up, mom. I love you please, wake up, I need you mom.

My voice is now the only one in the hallway. The nurse comes, and she checks my mom's pulse. She lies down on the floor. She uses her cell phone and places a call, “Bring a stretcher, there is an emergency, hurry.” She says.

The doctor comes towards us, he checks my mom, who was lying on the floor. ” I think she had a heart attack, you should get the....”

“I already called them, they are on their way.” Two nurses come to our aid, they carry her gently, onto the stretcher. and we go to the female wing, and then she is given a bed.

The doctor tells me to calm down. I can't calm down now, I feel more alarmed. That was the same thing he said before my dad passed.

I am outside the room. I can't see what is h