Conversation Piece in 500 Words

This week’s exercise is to write a conversation-driven piece featuring two characters. Here’s what I did:

The Final Visit

The ceiling fan greets me with its incessant humming. Thirteen days since the stroke, I’ve been lying here on this bed, just waiting. I look beside me and I see him standing there. Not a good sign.

“You,” I say to him. But he doesn’t answer.

“You have come for me,” I continue, “at last.”

“Yes,” he replies.

“I understand.” I look away to the window. It doesn’t offer much comfort.

“How many have you taken?” I ask him. “How many since … since that day?”

“I don’t know. I’ve lost count.”

“Do you take pleasure in doing it?”

“No. Not at all.”

“Is it hard?”

“Yes.” I look at him. He’s looking down on his feet. “Every time,” he continues.

“How can you just keep on doing it then?” I ask.

“It’s what I do. It’s what I am.” A pause. “It’s what you made me to be.”

I look at him. He doesn’t look at me at all.

“Did you think I wanted you to do this?” I ask him.

“I did. Back then.” He turns to look at me this time. “Right after you traded my life for Mama’s, I thought you wanted me punished or something. Punished for something I’ve done to you.”

“You must understand. I had to make a choice. I struck a deal with the goddess Kendra in order to save someone’s life. In exchange she would ask something of me, something precious. I never thought she would make me give up a soul for the one she saved. It was either Helen or you. It was either give up my wife or give up you. I had to make a choice.”

My eyes are welling up with tears. But I continue. “It was never easy for me. It was the hardest decision I have ever made.”

His eyes locked into me. His stare is cold, unfeeling. “So you gave me up. Your eight year old adopted son to the Goddess,” he finally says.

“So I did”, I say to him, wiping my tears. “But I never thought she would turn you into one of her servants.” I stare back at him now. “I never thought she’d turn you into a Harvester.”

Silence.

“Did you hate me?” I finally ask.

“Yeah. I did.”

“Now?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I would have done the same thing.”

I look at him. I weep openly now. He sits beside my bed.

“Thank you,” I say to him. “For understanding.” He nods silently.

I stare out the window. The orange sky paints a warm, tangerine glow on the town square. A boy is running towards a flock of pigeons, spreading his arms, laughing and jumping. At that moment the church bells toll. It is time.

“Will I see Helen again?” I ask.

“Yes.”

I turn to him and say, “I’m ready, my son.”

“Take my hand, father.”

I reach out and grasp his hand. I feel warmth, comfort and above all—release.

And then I feel nothing.