Fiction Hellacious

            “You're dying, you know.”             “Yep.”             “Well?”             “Well, what?”             “Well, don't you think you should tell somebody? Somebody besides me , I mean.”             “I didn't tell you that. I don't even know that I am. And you don't know either.”             “You just said you were though.”             “I did not.”             “Then you confirmed that you were.”             “I didn't do that either. Maybe I just feel like I am is all.”             “No. You are. You don't have much time left. Strangers may not be able to tell. But I can. I remember how you used to be.”             “I'm just getting old,” the man coughed up a couple, dusty lung-fulls of air. He'd been combing his hair in the mirror.             “You're not that old.”             “Well, thank you.”             “Not old enough to be coughing like that all the time,” she elaborated, “Not old enough to say

. א             “Is it true, Papa? Have they finished it? Have they finished building the ramp?”             “Of course not, Darry. Where did you even hear that? Who would have told you such a thing?”             But the boy didn't answer.             “Darry...” Yitzhak made the tone that all parents make when they know for certain that their child has overstepped their bounds or has done something wrong, “You need to tell Papa now. And I promise, I will not punish you. Were you listening to the adults speak when you knew you weren't supposed to?”             “No.”             “Well, then Darry,” he came over and sat on the child's bed with him now, “You have nothing to be afraid of.”             “Really?”             “Did I just make you a promise?”             “Yes.”             “Then, go on. Just tell your dad. Hmm? Don't you want to do that? Don't you want to atone and cleanse your soul?”             “Atone for what, Papa?”