The King
King Arthur, that's what Regina and her sisters dubbed their father, Arthur, since they were children. In school they were taught that the home is a castle, the father is the king and ruler, the mother is the queen and the light that guides the subjects which are the children. And their father had ruled their home like a ruthless king.
And now, the king lies still on the hospital bed, eyes closed, oxygen mask obscuring the rest of his face. His shallow breathing comes simultaneously with the hissing of the oxygen tank beside him, the ninety-year old body emasculated both by age and renal failure. His last words just before he slipped into this comatose state has been "I wish Regina is here. I want her to bury me."
'How ironic that he wants me here, the bastard,' this thought goes through Regina's mind who now stands at the foot of the bed, her carry-on bag still in her hand, the two days of flight evident in her puffy eyes and stale make-up.
His doctor, a handsome man with bleached hair and young enough to be Regina's son, enters the room, introduces himself, shakes Regina's hand, and proceeds to explain that they will not operate on the patient because at his age his body may not be able to sustain the procedure.
She purses her lips. She knows this will cost her probably a good part of her retirement income for the year. "How long is he going to be like this?" she asks the doctor.
"Hours, maybe a few days," the doctor replies. She raises an eyebrow and waits.
"We never know," the doctor continues, "I'd say indefinitely." He feels his patient's pulse, checks the tubes connected to him then takes his leave.
She stands beside the king's bed, and surveys the man who had been the cause of her misery all her young years. The numerous beatings, sometimes for no reason at all; the unfair treatment she received from him because he favoured her brother, the first born; his adamant wish for her not to continue schooling because it's a waste of money because "she's a girl, and she would just get married anyway"; the contempt at her decision to marry a man much older than her, and to raise a son on her own. And that one despicable sin he committed, the thing she could never forgive. She had not seen or spoken to him for thirty years, although in the last several years she has soften a bit and has regularly sent him a monthly stipend when he could no longer work, because no one else is able to help him.
"Father," she whispers, but loud enough so he could hear her.
She thinks he has made a feeble groan.
"I'm here to bury you, Father, as you had wished." She pauses, waiting for him to stir. Then her face hardens. "Now, die."
