Am I even a father, now that Eric’s gone?
Am I a father, or is it just something I used to be?
His face is pale, his lips blue. The skin on his hands looks like grey marble. Only his hair, his wavy auburn hair, still has color. Still looks alive.
He’s cold to the touch. So cold in his loneliness.
I press my ear against his chest. Nothing beats inside. Nothing rises, nothing falls. He is still.
I am still. The world is still.
Only the sunlight dances with the shadows out there, on the horizon.
A drabble is a work of fiction of precisely one hundred words. Its purpose is to test the author's ability to express interesting and meaningful ideas in a very limited space.