Scrap: I Need to Die

Well, this is obviously the culmination of boredom and a writing prompt I found on the internet, and not a cry for help at all. Don't worry, the title just seemed to fit much better than: "Old Man", which might've been even more distressing...Anyways! The prompt asked the question: "When would it be okay to be happy to die?" At first I thought, "Well, Cancer patients... Long term illness", but then the idea came into my head,  "What if God was trapped on Earth in a human body? Who could he tell? Who would really believe an old man who just popped up into the world with not even a cent to his name?"

This is the culmination of my efforts and spontaneously decent ideas! Short, sweet, and simple. ENJOY!

"I can no longer remember. I used to be somebody, a soldier I think, or maybe a newspaper man, or even a judge... I just know I was very important and wore a uniform. My name? I can't really remember, just... Please... I need to die."

That was all the man repeated, that was all he ever repeated during his interviews, but he was still locked up in the seventh cell of the St. Michael's Hospital for the Mentally Ill in the Alpha wing. It was quite humorous to Doctor Henry Davids, it was almost like the man was begging to die, and while as a youthful intern working his first "Psych rotation" at Boston General he had toyed with the idea of euthanasia. Assisted suicide, it was still called back then, it would be more appropriately called "Murder" now, but since the man was not in pain it neither compelled Dr. Davids to actually do anything about it. The man  after all was brought in after being found stone drunk in the middle of interstate with only a white robe on. The damned thing was the only clean thing about him, the rest of him was dirty, bruised, some spots sported sores, but all of it pointed to things such as Disassociation Disorder or Alcoholism. The man was quite old though, remarkably in great health, and was spirited for an old man. His gray eyes always frittering about, telling stories from the Bible, Koran, the Tanakh, and even a few lines from the Tao Te Ching, and a few other books of great philosophies, but other than that, the old man was forgetful.

Everyday he would wake up before the sun came up, he would stare out the small, barred, glass window, and the moment the orderly came to open the door he would turn and ask the same question, "Is today the day I die?"

He would go about the day, smiling warmly to the other patients, greeting them as if they were all old friends, and then he would sit and have a staring contest with the one man in the room who cannot say a word. It was almost as if they were having a quite ginger conversation, their faces not moving, but there was a sparkle in their eyes. Next came story time after morning pills, Jonah and the Whale, Isaac and Abraham, Tower of Babel, Mohammad's ascension to Heaven, all of these were like memories that he was sharing with children. The old man smiled so wide as he spoke, his eyes gleaming with pride as he told the stories, but there were many times where he would almost begin to cry. Stories such as Noah's Arc, Sodom and Gamora, or even stories such as Job's persistence all brought the old man to the verge of tears or even over the threshold, but every story was finished without interruption. It was quite interesting to see how every patient listened, hanging on every word , even if they had heard the story over a hundred times already. The old man, once done with story time, would sit and listen to the others tell their stories, smiling, laughing, and enjoying every moment. The nurses were even taking notes as much of what he was told was more than any of them had ever said in a group therapy session.

The old man would then join the rest of the patients out on the lawn for some exercise, he would look about the world as he walked, noting flowers, remarking the way the grass was cut, commenting on the sky's color, and said all this as if he were seeing at all again for the first time. After exercise would come lunch, he loved every morsel of food he was served. He was always complimenting the staff of cookers and food preparation professionals, giving them each a firm handshake after every meal. The staff simply adored him, he would listen to them talk, smiling as the nurses and orderlies all gave him their problems and he would return to them with the most sagely of wisdom and advice. After dinner, depending on the evening's entertainment, the old man would either sit and look at the stars with a few of the other patients in the windowed common room, or when it was "movie night" he watched intently, eager to take in every emotion before weeping and giving a standing ovation at the end of every film. When bedtime rolled around though, he brushed his teeth, put on his long-limbed pajamas that almost covered his hands and feet entirely from view, and would then look to his orderly with a look of almost disappointment before saying, "Perhaps tomorrow will be the day I die."

Dr. Davids began to wonder about the old man, wondering if his life were truly at an end, and it was interesting as he began to take into count his own life. Each day seemed rather boring in comparison to the life the old man lived, a day full of wonder, of uniformity, but also full of the expectancy of death. Living each day as if death would come to take him was quite a daunting feeling to master, but this man seemed quite content with the thought of death. The day of July first rolled around, the Old Man did not wake up early.

The orderly quickly rushed into the room, checking the man's pulse, and was surprised to find it was dreadfully weak. After almost ten years in the Hospital, the Old man had finally been asleep when the orderly showed up to unlock his door, and the nurses and doctors all gathered at his doorway to look on as the old man was inspected. He simply smiled that intoxicating old smile as he waved at them and said in a raspy, weak voice, "Don't fret, I'm just dying, be happy."

Doctor Davids began to order him transferred to the local medical hospital for more on hands care, but the old man refused. He smiled as he did it, shaking his head as he asked Dr. Davids to put down the phone he had in his hand, and simply thanked the man for caring for him. The nurses seemed a bit distraught at the transpirations, begging him to let them help, but he refused and smiled at them, "No, no, this is a good day. It's sunny and warm outside, see?"

It was true, the day had been unusually perfect, but still, the thought of a death was incredibly heartbreaking. Dr. Davids had not expected the Old Man's last wish to be to see the other patients, his weak voice happily saying, "I just want to say goodbye to all my friends."

Each patient walked in, one at a time, each sobbing, or smiling, or laughing, or crying, or even angry at the old man for dying on them. He laughed with them, they hugged him, and he told them that he loved them each as though they were his child. He beamed with joy though, every second was full of joy as he began to feel the pain of his body beginning to shut down, and when the moment finally came, there was silence. A comfortable one. When the last breath left the Old Man's body it was a beautiful moment. There were no tears, no sobs, not even the squeak of a wheel chair, and everyone in the Alpha wing was gathered in the room. 

World Shaker

So, I missed my chance to post a blog post last week as I was busy with being lazy, so, in an effort I purposed myself to write the love letter of an old man to his wife. I don't much know how great it will turn out, but nonetheless it's a bit of work. Enjoy!

“You used to sit there, you used to sit in that very chair and smoke those cigarettes with the hearts on the filter. Smoking them, like you were kissing old lovers once more, like each one would bring you some sort of brief bliss from the squalor we lived in. The spark of your lighter bringing me from my paper to your face, my eyes staring with a sense of contempt before I would flash you the brightest of smiles. My eyes must've given me away quite a few times as I went back to my paper, they were tired eyes, eyes full of memories, eyes longing to forget, eyes longing to go blind to the world that we had created. You'd simply breathe in the carcinogens, holding them in your lungs as your shirt stretched fast against your breasts. I remember how I once lusted for you, once desired your form, once wanted to never stop touching such delicate beauty, once. Ah, but even now I can see that what we had is long gone. What was it you had said to me before? 'Beauty is in the Eyes of the Beholder'? I hardly remember what was said yesterday, it's hard to imagine I could remember something said all those years ago. I could remember seeing that sly smirk tugging at your lips, edging on a smile as you pressed your body to mine, urging me to dance in that old dance hall. My throat was so tight I felt like I would suffocate if I had done more than a waltz, but you opened me up to your devilish charm.

A sweet scent of roses, that was what you always wore, it was muddled behind the smoke, but it was there. Like a feather on a pillow, it was subtle, but it was there. Our first drink, sneaking in through the back of that tavern, my hands fumbling with my wallet while you had already downed every dripping drop of beer in your glass and had proceeded to drink from mine. We laughed as we walked home later, and then you stopped and we kissed in front of an old couple's apartment. They stuck their heads out the window and cheered us on as we giggled and ran off into the night. Your legs were so strong in those days, you ran everywhere, and when you weren't running, you were dancing, or skipping, or standing, or just walking. Anything you did would've made you a princess to strangers. I remember when you broke your ankle, the world crashed as you fell from the front steps, an earth quake happening precisely as you fell would've been insane enough for anyone to believe, but I was there.

You cried the pain was so bad, you cried so much that the blue sky turned an ominous black and the rain began to fall. I remember having to run with you in my arms to the hospital, you stopped crying as you clutched my shirt, but the rain didn't stop. Memories are great things...

Remember that time when you looked into the toy shop? Those children waved at you and we waved back, you smiled and it was as if those children had seen the most glorious thing they would ever see. That is what I see everyday I wake up to you. I remember the very words you said to me, the day you left, “and don't forget to smile, you grumpy bastard.”

The photograph I took turned out brilliantly, you would've been proud of the bowtie and suit I wore. But you couldn't have been. You weren't there to see it. The world seemed to be gloomy the rest of that day. There was even an awkward silence about the city, like everyone had already known what I did not. Now, here you lay, your body interred, your gravestone a simple marble monument, and the worst of it all is that damned cold nipping at my hands. The world is getting dizzy and so I guess it's time already. I've come to lay with you my dear, I've come to be with you in my final moments, because I can hardly bear the thought of being without you, even after all these years.

None of the people that I've met over my lifetime could make the world tremble, could make the clouds move, or make the rain fall. You will always be my world shaker."