Author's Note: So, this isn't Harry Potter for once. Scary, no? Anyways, I wrote it as EC for my English class, but (as with Madness) I care much more about your opinion than that of my English teacher. This is based off of the book Night by Elie Wiesel/Weisel (I don't have the book handy, and I can't remember). If you can't tell, this is from his father's POV, 1st person limited, on his deathbed. Reviews are appreciated...

---

It hurts so bad I can barely stand it. They won't even give me a drink of water… is that so much to ask for? Just one damn drink of water is all I want… not even Elie, my own son, will take pity on me, ease my suffering just a little…

---

I can't even get up now. How ironic – after all this, I die not from the Germans, not beaten to death or executed, but lying here, suffering, in my own filth. My fellow prisoners hate me for not being able to go outside – as if I choose to lay here! Being beaten by the evil souls who run this forsaken prison is bad enough without the others attacking me as well. Can't they see that we're all struggling against a common enemy, fighting the same painful eventuality? It's not the Germans, not the Nazis, not even the guards anymore – it's death itself. Cant they let me die in peace Can't they give me some water? Just one drink? Just one damn drink of water before I go?

---

He won't even respond to me anymore. What have I done, God, that you punish me so? Through all this I have not lost my faith, but now – my own son won't come to me! I call his name and he ignores me, like he doesn't hear me, like I'm a faceless stranger. I feel death approaching. I wanted to tell him… everything: that I love him, that God loves him still, that he will live through this, I'm sure… but he didn't even look at me, and I haven't the voice besides.

Give me strength, my Lord, to face my death with dignity inside, if not physically. I don't want to cry on my deathbed – I know I won't recover, for You don't wish it so, but at least grant me that much; don't let my corpse be tearstained in the fire.

I've been faithful to You for all my life, up to the last, You know that. Many men have lost their faith, stopped believing that You are the one true eternal God, the Creator of all – or they believe that You are wicked and cruel, to do such things to Your servants. I know, my Lord, that You have a reason for all these acts, and that I, a mere mortal man, have no right to question them. I trust in You always, my Lord; have pity on the soul that You created. And have pity on the soul of my son, please. He might have lost his faith for now, but he is but a boy still, and it will return to him.

Soon, death will come, and the guards. And I shall rest at last…