Life

The machine beeped idly beside her, a constant reminder that with each beep, her life was slowly ebbing away. Clean and sterile aromas followed by the din of the TV were all she had. The TV wasn't even the one in front of her. No, it was the other occupant of the room, sitting on the other side of the drawn curtain. Fortunately, she had gotten the window, but today it was raining. The sky was darkened and the water streaked against the glass, making it nigh on impossible to see out into the world that barely knew she existed and was dying.

Weak. So weak. She turned her head to look at the book resting beside a wilting set of tiger lilies. They had been brought by her father earlier in the week. But it was hard for any of them to look upon her in this state. She was barely more than an emaciated pile of skin drawn over bones. She was so weak. Too weak to even lift the book that was beside her. It was one of her favorites; A Dance With Dragons by George R.R. Martin. She had been hoping that maybe he would release another one of his books before she passed away so that she might know how the Song ended, but she feared she'd never find out.

She closed her eyes, let out a long exhale, and the beeping stopped.