Last Rites - Sex Stories

Last Rites

... slipped into his mind softly, quietly, and without the usual fight for civility. “If you have something to say,” he growled, “then say it. The sooner you finish, the sooner I can go back to doing what I was doing before you came barging in here.” The woman just sat beside him on a chair she’d pulled up, waiting for either his undivided attention or for the courage to do what she came here to do. He didn’t know which it was, and didn’t care. All Rod knew was that the sooner she was finished, the better. “Mr. Shore,” she began, “there’s no easy way to put this. The hospital tests indicate that you have cancer. They also indicate that you’ve left it too long to be treated. Do you understand what I just said?” Rod knew that he should be concerned, or scared, or worried, at the very least. But he wasn’t. In truth, he didn’t give a shit. That one piece of information helped him fill in a couple of the blanks in his mind. He now knew who would die, had a good idea of where, what the cause would be, and how his life would end. All that was left was to find out was when, not that it mattered much. Tomorrow would be as good a day as any other, he told himself. “What you’re saying is that I’m going to die, right?” he threw out at this woman that was, for him, the bearer of good news. “We all die sometime, somewhere, and because of something. I’ve known that most of my life. Big fucking deal! Now you burst in here to tell me something we both already know? Fuck off, and let me die in ...

... peace!” he cursed. “As I said, I can’t do that. The powers that be insist that you be aware of what’s happening to you, and what you’ll have to go through. It’s a painful death, unfortunately, and it’s my job to try and reduce the pain as much as I can. Would you consider going to the hospital, so we can administer pain killers?” “No!” He was adamant about that. His life had become a series of medical interruptions over the last thirty-something years, and he hated them for that. This . . . creature . . . was just another member of a legion of self-serving medical interventionists, in his opinion. But if she wanted to sit by his bed and watch him finally expire, it was no sweat off his balls. “Look, lady,” he began to expound for her benefit, “I came into this world alone. Even my own mother abandoned me, so I spent most of my early life either in a foster home or an orphanage. I’ll die alone, too. It’s kind of ironic that for the sixty-something years I’ve been alive, no one gave a fuck, and now that the end is here, I’m being bombarded by people that say they care? What a load of horse-shit! You don’t give a rat’s ass, one way or the other. You know it, and I know it. So why are you here?” “Actually, Mr. Shore, I do give a shit, as you put it. I was taken away from my own father when I was just a little girl, and ever since, I’ve always wondered what happened to him, how he’s doing, whether he’s happy, or even if he’s still alive. That’s what made me take this job in the first ...