Sobbing uncontrollably, Mr. Thompson holds the pillow above his son's sleeping face. The doctor's words played on an infinite loop in his head.
His sanity had cracked wide open, spouting forth dreadful thoughts like a geyser.
"...pancreatic cancer...abnormal cell growth...terminal...no cure...agonizing pain...crippling depression...counselors available...sorry...pancreatic cancer...abnormal cell growth..."
The mother was banging on the locked door, screaming for the father to stop, to get a second opinion, that she loved him, that a cure could be found,
anything she could think of to get her maniacal husband to stop.
As the police sirens neared, the son's face was covered by dripping tears and soft blackness. His death throes were drowned out by the dad's screams of torment and madness.
The father would spend the rest of his days in an asylum believing he did the right thing.
The doctor leaned forward in his chair. "I regret to inform you that your son has pancreatic cancer. It is caused by abnormal cell growth in the pancreas. It is terminal; there is no cure.
He will live in agonizing pain and suffer crippling depression. I'm so sorry."
As Mr. and Mrs. Simmons cried and try to console each other, the doctor leaned back in his chair and silently chuckled to himself.