He lay motionless, barely breathing. His pupils flickered as he groped at the ceiling. Then it all stopped. He rested against the corner in which the title of his book was written in red marker. He opened his mouth trying to pronounce the word, but all that came out was an incoherent sound: a hiss, a wheeze and then a trickle of blood from the corner of his mouth. I pulled him forward by the shoulder, turning him to his side so he wouldn’t choke. He emitted an animal-like yowl as the weight of his body pressed onto his broken thigh. I screamed. His eerie guttural cry turned into a gurgle and a stream of blood gushed from his mouth. I didn’t know what to do. I knelt before him, keeping his head to one side so he wouldn’t suffocate, but still the blood flowed, as though somebody had forgotten to turn off the tap. I called for help, but there was nobody there, of course. He pushed me away and tried to roll onto his back, perhaps to get rid of the terrible agony, perhaps to choke and die.

I shoved my fingers into his mouth and grabbed his swollen tongue. Everything, the mattress, my hands, everything, was soaked through with a warm, thick, brown, almost black, liquid. But I wasn’t nauseous. My only thought was to stop his suffering. He didn’t deserve this. Nobody deserved this. I tugged at him again and thrust two fingers deeper into his mouth. He vomited. At that moment, I finally stopped hating him. Only love remained. The meaning of that elusive connection we call “family” dawned on me. We were all together again. Like the day his indolent sperm fertilised my mum’s unyielding egg. Like the day I was born.

My head was spinning from this hot smell. The blood on the right side of his lips was already caking. On the left, it had slowed to a dribble. I wiped his teeth with a damp cloth. The blood on his cheeks wouldn’t come away. It had worked its way into his deep wrinkles and hard stubble. I rubbed and rubbed as though his life depended on it.

He died later that night.

I remained awake for the longest time, his hand in mine, my hand in his. His bony fingers were a clasp. Finally, I fell asleep for an hour. When I came to, he was no longer holding me.

I had slept through his moment of death.

He lay frozen like an exhausted wax candle that had sputtered its last spark. Life left him like smoke. The outlines of his skull appeared through the thin skin. His cheeks were hollow, his nose sharpened, his jaw dropped, and his hands slid to the floor.

I covered him from head to toe, tucking the blanket under the mattress. I stood looking mindlessly at this cocoon and resolved again to go to sleep.