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The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/Bog-Hound on 2026-07-30 04:49:13+00:00.

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”Isaac, can you bring Grandma her dinner? I think it's been long enough.” My dad asked, putting a hand on the couch as though to support himself. “I need to go make sure Anna washes her hair.”

I smiled, though the plaster had worn thin on my positive expression. “Sure, Dad.” I loved Grandma, and of course I was willing to help her and my dad, but it was so hard to see her this way.

Dad returned the forced smile. “Thanks, son. I'll finish feeding her when I've got Anna in her pajamas.”

He patted my shoulder, and made his way down the hall to snatch my little sister from her room. I watched him go, then stood and made my way to the kitchen, where Grandma's pot pie had cooled enough for her to eat. I put it on her tray, along with a bottle of water with a straw sticking out of the top.

The guilt was a pit in my stomach, slowly pulling the rest of me into it until my chest felt tight and my posture slouched. How was I to settle these two opposite feelings? The want to be with my Grandma during her final days, and the dread I felt every time I saw her. She was clearly suffering and dying. I wanted her to get better, but at her age, that simply wasn't in the cards. A part of me just wanted it to end; in whatever way it had to. Upon accepting that these dark feelings existed, I had been in a civil war between logic and emotion.

I took a moment to collect myself before entering her room. It had been a guest bedroom before she had taken up permanent residence; the classic liminal room in the house kept tidy and sterile, only being used once every few months, but set to exist as an afterthought otherwise, and only considered when counting the room and bath of the house.

Ever since Grandma had moved in all those months ago now, the room has undergone a metamorphosis. What had once been uncanny felt almost welcoming back when she was healthier. It felt good to see her and help her, especially with how grateful she had been. As she degraded, however, the space seemed to suffer as she did. The smell of her perfume was replaced by must. Her whirring and hissing machines battled harder than ever, as though they waited to shield us from the sound of their failure in every ragged breath Grandma took. Any welcoming feeling had vanished, and now this room was one of final chapters and last days, the ghosts of which would haunt it forever, perhaps as a waft of chemical scent years down the road, or a phantom beep from a machine long removed. Today however, those scents were strong, those machines raged, and Grandma was hungry. I knocked and after a moment, pushed in the door.

The scent hit me instantly. That familiar must of the decrepit; a smell so pungent it almost seems to have thickness to it. The smell of plastic also filled the room, emanating from the tubes and bags that filled her with air and removed waste. Her breath, like a waking snore, cracked through the tubes which clouded with compressed air from her pump. She didn't even look at me; her foggy eyes were half shut, like an old trunk so full of memories that you could no longer close the lid.

”Hey, Grandma.” I said as I slowly entered the room. “I have your dinner ready for you.” Her only reply was another deep wheeze which was absorbed into the whirring machine that refused her release.

I again felt a stab of guilt as the thought crossed my mind. I loved her dearly, and she was all I had left of my mom; her daughter. Of course I didn't want her to die. But this… was this living? Are we just prolonging her suffering out of some selfish desire to hold on to her, a slipping rope that burns our hands as we grasp ever tighter? Or is it a moral obligation, with us only feigning altruism? Refusing her release not because it is what we want, or even what she wants, but because it is what we believe we must do?

I realized I had been standing there for an awkward minute, allowing my thoughts to circle around and devour themselves - a mental ouroboros. Grandma, of course, didn't care. She couldn't care.

I approached the side of her bed where we had a chair and TV tray set up for dinners. She had been propped up by pillows in such a way that she could eat or sleep in roughly the same position. We tried to move her when we could, but she was so fragile that we worried that we would do more damage than any bed sore would, the way she whimpered when we did try to move her fueled this fear. Not to mention, at this point we doubted she had long enough to seriously develop any, so the practice had slowly ended.

I began mixing her pot pie, a shallow attempt to retain dignity and normalcy for my grandmother, into a slurry of food while I told her about my day. I didn't know if she could even hear me, much less understand, but it makes me feel better; more connected to her.

Once I had mushed her food, I poured some water into the mess to slurry it even further. I looked over at her. The mask which covered her mouth and nose obscured much of her face beneath the fogged gray. I gently reached out and pulled the mask down. As I did, air hissed from the plastic and her wheezing became much more labored.

I took a moment to admire her features, as I occasionally did. I could see the faintest impressions of my late mother in her; Grandma's blue eyes and high cheekbones had survived the generational leap in my mother. I wondered if my mother had lived into these late years of life, would she have looked like the woman before me now? I wasn't sure if I wanted to know the answer to that.

I brought the spoon to her mouth. She retained enough awareness to recognize this, and opened. Her mouth closed shakily around the spoon. She began to chew, or at least make the motions of chewing. She didn't need to nor could she truly, as she had no teeth left. I tried to catch the food mixed with spittle that rolled out of the corners of her mouth. I caught it all, though a glossy finish stained her dull skin where it had dripped; tacky to the touch.

She gulped and began to cough. Luckily she had swallowed before her shallow breaths failed her, and she didn't spew the food right back out at me. I replaced her mask and let her take a few assisted breaths before delivering her next bite.

This process continued for about ten minutes. It was grindingly slow, between her bites, the time it took to “chew”, her breaks to breath, and trying to prevent her from getting too messy. As I did this I thought about how similar it must have been to feeding a baby. Ironic, that we begin and end our lives in such similar fashion.

Letterman, constantly playing for her simulation, was a mindless buzz in the background. I was so consumed with my own inner strife that I didn't hear my dad shouting down the hall. It was only when my little sister pushed her way into the room that I was snapped out of my lull.

”Anna? What are you-”

”Sorry, she slipped away from me.” My dad apologized. “I was looking for her hairbrush and she scurried off.”

Anna beamed at our grandma. “Hi Grandma! Can we do weasel?” She asked, raising her hands up to our grandma's bed.

I cringed slightly. We had been shielding Anna from this whole ordeal the best we could, so she didn't really grasp how far gone our grandma was. She knew Grandma was sick, but not that she was actively dying. Anna had been so excited when Grandma moved in, but had increasingly grown frustrated with the excuse that Grandma is too tired to play with her.

”Sweetie…” my Dad said carefully “No weasel right now, okay?”

”Aww!” Anna pouted, folding her arms.

Memories flashed through my mind of Grandma singing to us “Round and round the mulberry bush, the monkey chased the weasel,” she would bounce her fingers and bob from side you side as she just have done beside her radio in her youth “the monkey thought is was all in fun, POP goes the weasel!” She would poke us in the sides, tickling us when she said pop. I had long since outgrown it, but it still made Anna giggle.

”Why don't you and Isaac go watch some cartoons? He can pop you guys some popcorn?” My dad glanced at me as he said this; an offer extended.

I nodded appreciatively. “Yeah, that sounds good. Come on Anna.” I ushered her out of the room. She was still pouting, but did not struggle against me. I glanced back at my dad as we left as he took up my post. He was playing with the silver crucifix that hung loosely around his neck; a nervous habit of his. I sighed and shut the door.

After popping the popcorn I sat down for some Fairly Odd Parents with Anna. I wasn’t paying much attention, instead scrolling on my phone. I didn’t realize I had been listening to her laugh until she stopped. She was sitting cross-legged on the ground, looking down.

“Hey,” I said after watching her for a minute. “You okay?”

“Isaac? When will Grandma get better?”

My heart sank. I was not equipped to deal with this. I was just a teenager, who was I to explain this to her? She knew our mother was dead, but that was a different concept from someone dying. She didn’t remember our mom, but she knew and loved our grandma.

“I…” My brain buzzed trying to come up with an answer. “I don’t know, Anna. She’s pretty sick.” I mentally kicked myself for this response, knowing how blunt and crude it was.

She simply nodded. “Yeah, I know.” I grimaced as I met her eyes. Knowing beyond their young years. Our efforts to shelter her were in vain and honestly absurd. She heard us talk and plan. She knew what life was and knew that w...

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