Terribly ill. Mother sits at the side of my bed, petting my forehead as if I was a dog. Dislike. Distaste. Horribly uncomfortable and rather angry, as if this has been done to me and not a natural ocurance.
She smiles down at me, doting, fawning and then softly says, "It's your time to die. Just let go."
"Are you crazy?" I gasped, shocked that she'd suggest such a thing. "I'm not going to die."
"Yes, you are," she replied.
I would have rose to slap her, but I hadn't the energy. She just pats my arm.
"Go on, let go. It's your time."
I try to scream at her, but nothing except a fierce whisper comes out, "Go to Hell. I'm not going to die. I'm not going to die yet. I refuse."
"Let go...it's your time," she said again in that soft mother-knows-all voice. I hated it...and I woke in tears.
