The Last Time I Died

by Joe Nelms

  She’s just left the room and I’m lying there thinking I have to tell her something when she comes back but, as always, she doesn’t make it.

  The dream fades fast, and just as fast reality creeps in to replace it in my half-awake mind. Lisa’s presence is shunted away in favor of the feel of the stiff sheets I’m lying on. The warm sunlight we lay under chills into the hospital smells that surround me now. Our laughter is replaced by the drones and beeps and buzzes of monitors.

  This time when I open my eyes, I feel less shock and amazement that I have returned from the dead. I expected I would. What confidence one needs in their medical caretaker to make that assumption. Wow.

  I am back.

  I have succeeded. I am not grateful to be alive. I am satisfied with a job well done. This is not a Thank You, Jesus moment. It is a Mission Accomplished one.

  No. Not yet. I have to sketch.

  The foyer. My mother. Her eyes. The cop’s forearms. His muscular back. The stack of mail. The closed front door. My mother’s nervous body language. I have to get everything down immediately.

  Cordoba left pencils and a brand-new sketch pad on the table next to my bed. I force my brittle muscles to grab the tools and start drawing a wide picture of the scene. The master shot. I’ll use this to trigger myself to remember more details as the day gets later. I can’t feel some of my fingers, so it takes longer than I hoped.

  I’m starving and I feel hung-over, although that’s impossible. Being dead is a great way to stop drinking.

  I finish a rough of the master shot and move next to my mother’s eyes. Furtive. Frantic. Needy.

  Wait.

  I waste a few seconds checking my body for missing organs. I feel much better than the last time. No stitches. No missing limbs. Still have two eyes. Feels like she kept her part of the bargain.

  Except for the sex. What was that?

  Cordoba humped me like a truck stop whore as I was dying and probably for a while afterward. It was preplanned. She was ready with the hard-on medicine and timed it to perfection. Better to ask forgiveness than permission, I guess. I already know I want her to kill me again so the issue has to be addressed. Or does it? Do I really care what happens to the bag of tissue that hosts my mind and gets me from place to place? Argue it all you want, but I’m not offended. No, not at all.

  The cop put his hand on my mother’s shoulder. I was in the room and they know I saw it happen. I sketch the basics of the gesture and wonder what the point was. A practiced move calculated to reassure a hysterical housewife. An over-familiar touch. A random act. It was either empathetic or shameless or meaningless.

  I readjust myself and feel a little something on my chest. Peeking inside the gown she put me in I see rounded rectangles of burn marks on my chest. About the size of defibrillator paddles. Looks like I was dead dead. Maybe this wasn’t the easiest procedure ever performed. But whatever. Here I am.

  My mother had a bruise on her eye, but that was not why she called the cops. It was healing. She had no fresh injuries. Only residual panic. She had to know I could hear what she was saying.

  Where is Cordoba anyway? Isn’t one of these monitors letting her know I’m up and conscious?

  I’m almost done with sketches. Drawing the cop’s forearms is easy although I’m not sure why I would ever need them. But everything goes down. Everything. Except his face. I couldn’t hang on long enough to see his god damn face.

  Cordoba walks in. She’s unimpressed that I’m awake. Maybe one of those monitors did let her know. I have no idea what any of them do. She checks the one closest to me and I don’t know by her reaction what it tells her.

  —How are you feeling?

  Business as usual. Not that I expect a high-five, but she is one cold fish. She checks my vitals. I’m perfect or at death’s door. She doesn’t tell me which.

  —I feel great, relatively.

  Although, I have paddle burns on my chest. How close was I?

  —Did you have any trouble bringing me back?

  Cordoba ignores the question and places a fresh syringe and more meds on the tray next to the bed. Magic medicine. Looks like she’s down for another round as well. Alright, let’s say there was no trouble. Which leaves us with the one question I can’t resist asking.

  —The sex. Right when I died. What was that?

  Her hair is once again pulled back into a tight ponytail and she looks at me so very evenly. Like the predator that she is. It’s either anger or embarrassment. No, it’s neither. I wonder if she feels emotions at all. She waits for me to withdraw the question. I won’t.

  —That’s why you lost your license.

  —That was a consideration, yes.

  Unapologetic. Just the facts. Take it or leave it.

  —So what happens next time I die?

  —Do you need to die again?

  —I do.

  Finally, she moves her eyes away from mine to the syringe.

  —Come back in two days.

  When her eyes come back to meet mine again, they’re dead. Cold. Lifeless. It’s time for me to leave.

  71

  I’m still hungry and the sunlight is killing my eyes.

  I’ve never been this sensitive. The street is crowded and I know people are giving me a wide berth as I make my way uptown. I’m trying to go unnoticed, but that’s not going to happen. Even among the homeless around here, I stand out. Unstable has its own distinct aura.

  My sketches are rolled up under my left arm and I’ve got the syringes locked in a death grip in my right hand. I want to go start the recovery process as soon as possible, but if I don’t eat I might not make it back to my apartment.

  I sell my watch at a pawn shop I noticed on the way over. Lisa paid a little more than eight grand for it one Christmas. I never understood the extravagance but it seemed to be meaningful to her so I kept the watch. Never took it off. She had it engraved with our initials separated by a plus sign over the phrase Truly, madly, deeply. I believe at the time it was true.

  The greasy little broker gives me four hundred. We both know he’s ripping me off, so he pretends to be doing me a favor and tells me I’m lucky he doesn’t call the cops. In the reflection of the two-way glass behind him, I see that my hair is now completely gray. I look twenty years older than when I started this mishigas.

  Truly, madly, deeply. Noticeably absent from the phrase was the word forever.

  There’s a diner across the street. I go in and order three breakfasts. The place is empty and I can’t resist unrolling the sketches and spreading them out across my table and the two that flank it.

  My mother.

  The cop.

  I don’t know what else to do. He’s not leaving me any choice.

  What was my father doing that was so bad the cops had to set up some secret plan with my mother? Domestic violence doesn’t usually merit a full covert operation. Her eyes stare back at me but don’t answer. They never answer.

  My food arrives and I eat it like the starving pig that I am. I’ve never tasted food this good. I don’t know if the illegal immigrant in the back happens to be the best cook in the world or this is a byproduct of being brought back to life. Doesn’t matter. I contemplate a fourth breakfast but I’ll vomit if I do and fuck if I’m wasting what little money I have like that. I can’t move fast enough to skip out, so I pay the check, screw the waitress on the tip, and leave.

  I don’t get ten steps out the door before I know I’m being followed. Same feeling I had before only stronger. I stop.

  Nothing.

  There’s nothing behind me. Even with my oversensitive eyes, I can see there’s no one creeping up on me. No whistling simpletons. No bogeymen. Nothing. WTF?

  When I turn back toward my home, I’m met with the self-satisfied smirk of the exact motherfucker I thought might be following me. Standing there waiting for me. About six inches from my face. Goose, the mustache man. Smiling like the dickhead that he is.

  —Who are you?


  Did Harry send him to watch me? Could he be an old friend of Lisa’s? Do I owe him money? What could he possibly want from a bottomed-out loser?

  —Who. Are. You.

  He doesn’t answer me, of course. Just stands there with that shit-eating grin stretched across his face. I don’t know how he snuck up on me, but here we are.

  He head butts me before I can make a move. Fucking head butts me right in the nose. Blood is pouring out my nostrils and past my hand as if I hadn’t even raised it.

  I back away from him as I try to balance not getting blood on my drawings with not losing control of the meds in my pocket with figuring out why I’m being attacked by a stranger.

  He’s grinning even wider as he watches me suffer. I think he laughs to himself. It must be going better than he hoped. Congratulations, pal.

  I gather myself and throw a punch, landing a beaut of a right cross on his cheek. He shakes it off like it’s nothing. Didn’t feel it. Am I that weak or is he that strong?

  He takes a step closer and grabs my left wrist, the arm with the drawings tucked under it. I fight to keep my elbow chicken-winged against my side but he’s stronger than I am. Stronger than anyone I’ve ever met. The drawings drop to the ground and I do my best not to step on them. I can still feel my meds in my pocket. Why did I take my hand off of them? He plants a foot firmly on my sketches and yanks me toward him.

  He head butts me again on my forehead and it hurts worse than the first one. Is he getting stronger? My knees buckle and I drop but not all the way to the ground. I can’t. Goose holds me up by the wrist high enough to punch me in the face several times.

  He’s pounding me. I remember when I used to like this kind of thing. There was nothing like a good beat down to take the edge off. Release a little stress. It gave me such clarity. As he takes his fist back again, I realize I’m not getting the same kind of thrill this time. No sharp pang of anticipation before his knuckles meet the thin flesh covering the border of my eye socket. Is that because I didn’t provoke it or because what I’ve been up to is so much more dangerous than being pounded into raw meat? I think I’ve desensitized myself to this level of danger. It’s boring. But I know I’ve got to go through it. How is Goose not breaking his hand on my face? Shouldn’t he at least be getting tired by now? He’s enjoying this. Truly, madly, deeply.

  I hear a bystander say What’s he doing? and another calls out something that sounds like Do you need some help? I can’t answer. My mouth is full of blood and I’m having trouble focusing my eyes.

  Finally, Goose is kind enough to let me drop the ground. I manage to not land on my meds by turning to the side and letting my bony hip absorb the brunt of the fall. Goose takes the opportunity to launch a few kicks into my stomach.

  How are there no cops here by now? I’ve gotten a summons for walking out of a bar to smoke a cigarette with a drink in my hand. And there are no cops around when this is going down? No good Samaritans with martial arts training? No one’s even yelling at Goose to stop. Can’t anyone on this street see that I’m getting mugged or whatever this is? The crowd that has gathered to watch this beat down is not reacting the way I would expect. No one is horrified at the senseless violence taking place fifteen feet away from them. One guy even looks sort of amused. Like he might post it on YouTube.

  Goose offers no explanation for the attack. And he’s so efficient with his blows. This can’t have gone on longer than forty-five seconds. I’ve been reduced to a cowering sack of cuts and bruises in under a minute. But he hasn’t said a word.

  This is so wrong. If I’m going to die for real, I want it on my own terms.

  And then it’s over. By the time I notice he has stopped kicking me, Goose is ambling down the street as if nothing ever happened. And whistling. No one even looks at him as he passes. Me, they never take their eyes off of, fascinated. The bloody pile of human. I presume this is because, as ragged as I was before the beating, I must look exponentially worse now. Like I might die right in front of them and they don’t want to be distracted for a second. How often do you have the opportunity to see something like this? Maybe they think I live on this sidewalk. That I’m used to this. That I deserve it.

  Finally, someone says they’re calling for an ambulance and my blood starts pumping again. I don’t need a doctor. I have a doctor. And I’m not going to a hospital. I guarantee what I’ve got in my pocket will help me far more than whatever they cook up for me in the psychiatric department. My shaky hand digs around and pulls out the meds. They’re still intact. How the fuck did my knuckles get so bloody? I thought I only got one punch in.

  I struggle to my feet, gather up my sketches, which are now blood-streaked and trampled with boot prints. One of my teeth lies on the ground but I don’t pick it up. I’m gone before the ambulance arrives. If it ever came.

  72

  If Lisa were still talking to me and happened to be here right now, she’d have plenty to say on the subject.

  The layout of the drawings. The order. A better way to attach them to the wall, perhaps. I’m using tape but it doesn’t hold great on brick. It’s good enough.

  I put the new drawings up next to the old ones. The order doesn’t make much sense, but every time I reorder them, they make less and less sense. Which came first and what followed what is a complete mystery. Most likely Forearm Cop showed up after one of the big fights but maybe not. How the fuck am I going to keep this up? There are so many gaps to fill in.

  My tongue is a little swollen and I have a craving to eat ice and I think dirt, as well. Those are symptoms of anemia. Lack of iron in my red blood cells. Or lack of red blood cells. Makes sense. My marrow has been taxed beyond belief. The recuperation I’m forcing on myself must be the equivalent of a turbo growth spurt. You can only run an engine so fast for so long before something breaks down. Looks like we’re starting with anemia. Oh well.

  If Lisa were talking to me she’d notice that my sketches are now taking up a good two thirds of my (our) wall. It’s an impressive sight if you know their origins. But she wouldn’t know the origins. I never told her. She might offer some suggestions on order or aesthetics, but she’d be guessing as much as I am.

  Eventually, she would tell me enough with the rearranging. I could do this for hours but I have to maintain my priorities. I have some recovering to do. Lisa was good like that. Recovery means more memories. More memories means answers. I get my gallon of water ready and fill my syringe up.

  BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!

  Someone pounds on my door. I limped home. Looking back on it I must have left a trail of blood. Easy enough to follow if you were the police or EMTs who showed up at the scene of my beating. Or if you’re Goose, come to finish the job. But he already knows where I live. If it is that smiling fuck, I can do nothing to stop him once he gets past the locks. I’m weak and I’m tired and I’ll die in my living room and no one will know until the neighbors complain about the smell. No reviving. No way back from The White.

  BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!

  If it were the cops, they would have identified themselves by now. It’s not the cops. Great. Now, this is where Lisa and I would differ. She would tell me I deserve this. Running around like a madman. You make your own fate.

  The pounding isn’t strong enough to break down the door, but maybe he’s not trying that hard. How long is he willing to wait? Why follow me home to finish me off? He didn’t seem to care about witnesses. Why not kill me on the sidewalk? And who the fuck is this guy? Why decide to torture me all of a sudden? I’m just a guy trying to kill himself over and over and minding my own business. God damn it’s annoying.

  —Christian!

  Through the door. It’s Ella. Oh, Lisa would have a fucking mouthful to say about this. Like don’t answer the door. And it’s none of her business. And shut the fuck up.

  BOOM! BOOM! BOOM!

  —Christian, open the door. I can hear you moving around in there.

  It is her business and it has been for a long time. It was
her business just like it was mine. Ella’s angry. She’s going to yell for a while, I can already tell. But I need her so I unlock the door.

  It’s barely open before she throws a wad of papers in my face and storms in. It’s the copies of the drawings I shoved through her mail slot in my face. Good, she got them.

  —What were you thinking?

  If Lisa were here I wonder if she would defend me. I like to think she would jump in front of me and tell Ella she’s handling this completely the wrong way. What is needed here is compassion and understanding on her part. Not anger. I’ve got enough of that for all of us.

  —What is wrong with you?

  If I started to explain she wouldn’t listen. Ella needs to yell. It’s her process, like dying is mine. I only wish her timing were a tad better. I’m not up for drama right now. My right eye is swollen shut and I’m having trouble breathing through my nose. Ella turns to face me. Steaming.

  It hits her. How bad I look.

  —Oh god. What happened?

  No way around this. I haven’t looked too closely lately but I’m sure my face has aged to match my gray hair. And, there’s the missing teeth. Also, my anemia is making me even paler than I would be from dying so often. I’m only five years older than her, but if you asked a stranger, they might guess we were father and daughter. At least it softens her up a bit.

  —I’m okay.

  I can see Ella making the internal choice to take care of herself and her family before she helps me.

  —Look, I get that you’re having a tough time, Christian. But I told you I’m not getting involved in whatever chaos you’ve got going on. You’ve got to stop sneaking around and causing trouble.

  At this point Lisa might tell me she told me so. She told me I should have never gone to the dog fights or Ella’s house. She told me so.

  —What am I supposed to tell the kids about those horrible drawings? They were scared. And now I have to lie to Tim about why you would leave those for me. I’m not interested in telling Tim or anyone else for that matter what happened. It was thirty fucking years ago, Christian.