As silence was present, except for the howling of the cold winter wind, I lay on my knees, looking at my father's dead body. It'd been days before the two of us had eaten, but why'd he have to die. Why couldn't it've been me? He would've said the same. My father wasn't just my dad, he was my best friend. He meant more to me, then anyone ever could. Before nuclear war struck our world, and when technology was still in existence, my dad and I would drive to McDonalds, not to grab a bite, but to get free wifi. We weren't poor, but weren't exactly rich, either. We had a strange connection. Sometimes, without meaning to, we'd say things at the same time, and when I was grieving for my mom's ashes to return to warmth, and love, he'd be, too. We would rent a movie from Redbox, and try to get her off our mind. Every October, my father, and I would run in local marathons for Breast Cancer. Yep, my mother died of cancer. Whoever said winning isn't everything, probably wasn't diagnosed with cancer. It is-- well, was, very hard to deal with. My mom was so good to me. I shouldn't have been so hard on her. She never did anything to me, but love me.
