Harold waited, expectantly. The doctor stared at him. Professional stiff upper lip mingled with genuine pity for the poor man. Natural remedies had probably hindered more than helped him, but the fact was, in Nature, death was, well, natural.
A slight cough rose from Harold. He was merely clearing his throat, but the doctor knew the beginnings of a death rattle when he heard it.
“Well Doctor? What is it? Nothing more serious than a cold,I hope?” A faint, nervous grin played over Harold’s lips, pale, not yet blue, but definitely not flushed with health.
A slow shake of the head in the negative. A smile more akin to the mask of tragedy’s grimace. And then a voice, sterile as the office and the room it echoed in. “I’m sorry sir.”
“Sorry? Why?” A prick of fear and pain jabbed at his heart,. drawing an involuntary gasp.
“I’m sorry Sir, but you’re dying. It’s only natural, you’ve lived quite a few scores you know.”
“Dying? Dying of what?”
“Nothing, sir. You’re dying of nothing.”