Fred Flintstone tried to stay awake with toothpicks. Propped his eyelids like great heavy hides of animalskin lean-tos. Got tired enough. Snapped them just like toothpicks. Funny, ha, ha. Daddy doesn't have that problem. I've never seen him blink, but I think he must. Maybe that glycerin-thick glaze is enough; no need to clean and wipe and moisten. I've decided to see. I found the toothpicks, colored ones for parties, in the cabinet behind the last of the china. It was hard at first, before I thought to shorten them. His lids are tough, leathery. They only look tissue thin. Didn't stop the first toothpick from piercing through, though. Hard to pull back, some blood, eventually got it. Just snapped them in half, perfect length. Red on the left, blue on the right. 3-D movie glasses, only real narrow and opaque. That was a couple hours ago now. I think he may be crying, but it's probably just that glaze building up. It has to go somewhere.

     I put the TV on. Felt okay to watch it, no need to look for him to blink. I know he won't now. Santa Barbara. Cassie's related to the man she loves. They didn't know. What a heartbreaker. I went to my room and masturbated, thinking she'd have to find a new guy now. Of course, she's in California, and she's only an actress. Probably doesn't even look like that on the street. Still, it was a sad episode. Made me feel real tender.

     I gave Daddy a sponge bath. I was real nice about it. The water wasn't any hotter than I could stand, and I didn't rub very hard. Especially around the bedsores. I was extra careful with them. But they disgust me, so I was quick, too. Had to get out of there. Had to take a shower. Scrubbed myself raw almost, especially my hands, which had almost touched him, almost touched his sores.

     After dinner, I had to clean him up, as usual, but since he had just had a bath, it wasn't so bad. I just changed his tee shirt and turned the sheet head to toe so the clean part was by his face. I straightened the toothpicks, too. I wonder if he's blind. If he is, for how long now?

     I lit a cigarette and sat and told him a story. All about what I'd do if I had more time. What I'd do if I didn't have him to take care of. I sat with him for a little while, leaning forward in my chair at the foot of his bed. Menthol branding iron Morse coding messages to his brain. Short circuit somewhere.

     When I finally went to bed, it was just like any other night. Lying there in bed looking up at nothing, seeing some kind of cutaway view of the house, looking down at me in one room, Daddy in the next, same position, both staring straight up at the ceiling. Me listening to him breathing, making me listen.

     And then it happened. Just like I had always imagined it would. He stopped breathing. And he started screaming. He screamed, and screamed, and screamed, only it was all one drawn out, pitiful shriek. I didn't think it would ever stop. I couldn't go in there. I was afraid of what I'd see. Afraid he'd be there, sitting upright, toothpicks snapped like toothpicks, no longer funny, ha, ha, mouth hanging open like one of those old drawings of ghosts from a hundred years ago, hands holding onto pussy, ulcerated feet. His brain finally letting him in on the joke. When the screaming stopped I listened for more. I listened for his breathing. I haven't heard anything, but I haven't looked, either. Doesn't matter if he ever makes another sound. I'll never forget his last. And somehow, it's not as satisfying as I had hoped. I'll have to do something, eventually. Clean up the china, for one. Clean up the house. Really work at it. I'll have to fix Daddy up, too. Make it look like he went peacefully. I can already see the grimace. I know it's there. I'll have to touch him, pry that grimace off his face. I mean, I figure he's dead. He must be. But right now, right this minute, I'm not sure what to do. What to do about his feet. His eyes. The sores. I've heard that your hair keeps growing. So do your nails. But how long does it take for a dead man's wounds to heal?