by Bryan Healey
She left a dying man?
"She said she just couldn't handle watching him die and just... left. He didn't talk about it much. He seemed to be really hurting."
What a bitch!
"He's sleeping on my couch right now."
I can't believe she would leave him...
"It's... just... I mean, Christ, one day Michael is just going about his life, and then suddenly he is staring down death. He has a great girlfriend, he has a nice home, he is healthy and young and his whole life ahead of him. Then a routine doctor visit and suddenly everything is changed. Everything is taken from him, his life all of a sudden about to end."
That must have been a horrible day...
"It's just... it's not fair!"
Cancer is never fair...
"I just can't believe it," her voice dimming as her footsteps arise. Then a sullen, horrifying silence that breaks my heart. The youth are never safe from the horrors of life forever, but they should be allowed their youth. It is the only solace in the anguish of elder years when hope crumbles and death looms inevitable.
The world spares no one, it seems.
And it's aggravatingly random...
"I love you, daddy!"
I see my little boy, standing at my feet, tugging on the cuff of my sleeve. The air is crisp and dry, the sun bright and blinding. A sea of men dressed as me, all surrounded by family and friends, talking and crying and laughing, stretching before me, behind me and to my sides, a number of trucks along the building in the distance to our right, waiting for us impatiently.
My bag is heavy...
"I'll miss you, little buddy!"
"When are you coming home?"
I see Jenny crying behind him.
"I don't know just yet, bud."
"Tomorrow?"
I stifle a cry, a laugh. "I'm afraid it will be a little longer than that, little man." And I put my hand on his shoulder, giving him the most stern and stoic look I can muster as a confused and broken father. It was my only defense against open weeping, something I can just not afford.
"Oh," and he lowers his head, his hands still clutching my sleeves. "Next week then?"
"No," was all I can say.
Jenny was near to breaking down.
"I'll write you," I promise them both.
"You will?"
I smile, and I scoop the little boy into my arms, squeezing him perhaps just a little too tightly and for a just a little too long. And I could stop the tears no longer, now coming freely.
"Of course I will."
And I set him down to immediately lurch for my wife, wrapping my arm around her neck and refusing to let go, pulling her tightly to me, reveling in the warmth she gave. I can't let go...
"I love you," she squeaks through sobs.
"I love you," I answer back. And I pull away and put my hands to her cheeks, my nose to hers, forcing a smile. "I'll think of you always."
"Same," she finally smiles.
And so I grab my bag, turn and briskly walk. I can't say anything more, or I'll never be able to leave, an option that would only end with me amidst a small, square cell, punished for desertion. It almost seemed worth it for a few months more of my family, running, running, always running...
"I don't know what to do," and the voice of Jenny, in panic, is palpable... I didn't hear my good morning; why didn't she wish me a good morning?
What is wrong?
Something sounds wrong.
"Jenny, he wouldn't want you to struggle like this, you know that. He would want to give you what is best for you. You know that."
"Yes-"
"And you are running out of money."
"I can't do it, Mary."
Do what?
What can't she do?
"Just think about it, okay?"
"No," and I can hear her footsteps, louder, insistent, almost tapping against the floor, undulating in pitch up and down. I think she may be pacing, from one end of the room to the other.
Why is she pacing?
"Honey, you have to-"
"Please leave."
"What?"
"Just for a minute, please leave," her voice now cracking; she's crying; why is she crying?
What is happening?
"Okay, I will," and more footsteps. "I'll be just outside if you need me, okay?"
"Okay," and then silence.
Absolute silence...
Where is she?
What is happening?
"I love you," and she is beside me, right beside me, her voice almost loud with whisper, right next to my functioning ears. I imagine her head atop my chest, her hand rubbing, gentle and caring, in circles just under my neck.
I love you, too...
"I don't know what to do, Max."
What is the problem? What can I do?
"Tell me what to do, Max, please tell me what to do... I need you to tell me what to do," and she is outright weeping now, shotgun sobs mixed in between sniffling and silence. "I always counted on you to help me, to give me advice. So, just tell me! Tell me what to do, Max! Tell me what to do!"
Why are you crying?
My heart is breaking; it is criminally unfair that I cannot comfort my wife in a time of need. The world has already dealt me a hand that I can barely cope with, but this is beyond it all. She didn't even cry with such abandon as this when I first landed here, so many years ago, with one evening of nature's random...
"Oh, Max," she wails. "I need you!"
Something is terribly wrong!
"I need you," she reiterates.
I need you, too!
"If you can hear me, Max, please, please, just show me that you're there."
Show you... Show you?
"Blink, move your head, squeeze my hand-" is she holding my hand? "-move your fingers, anything, please, please!" She must be holding my hand. "Please, Max, please... please..."
She is begging me, why is she doing this?
I have been here, motionless, for many years, and never have I heard her so insistent, so desperate for proof of my continued life. For a while now, she has even seemed comforted by the consistency of my condition, casual with her morning well wishes and affections, even being curiously playful when her mood seemed right.
But now, she sounds only in pain.
Why?
"Please," she whispers, and weeps further.
I have to move!
I struggle with all the effort I have, cursing my body for the lack of any evidence of my mental anguish, screaming at my muscles to move, move, move! They pay no attention to my cries, however, holding steady in the same pathetic position that they are always in. They never listen to me, and I've never hated them more.
So pathetic I am...
"You're really not in there, are you?"
I am! I am!
"I don't think I can handle seeing you like this anymore, Max. It's too much... It's just too much. This isn't you... You wouldn't have wanted to be like this..."
I don't want to be like this!
"I think I have to let you go, Max."
My breath would be stolen were I in control of my own breath; what does she mean, let me go? Is she going to stop seeing me? Will I lose her voice forever? I don't think I can handle that, I need her to see me, to talk to me; her voice is everything to me now. It's my only connection to the stolen life long past, my only relic of a life near forgotten!
"I'm so sorry," and I hear her kiss me, wet and noisy, and then footsteps, growing dim, "so sorry," and then gone, leaving me in the most deadly silence, so strong and thick that I hav
e no room for anything but it; no thoughts, no feelings.
Utterly alone...
The void is my only companion.
If I could, I would collapse in despair.
"Hello," says the desperate voice of Sarah. The whole day, gone to misery...
Hello, Sarah.
"Seems it's been a rough day for you, huh?"
You have no idea...
"Your vitals still look strong, though."
I don't care.
"And I'll be here with you through it all, Max."
It all? Is there more to come?
More misery?
What hell is awaiting me?
"I suppose you can't really care, can you?"
I care... Goddamn it, I care!
"I'll miss you, though."
Wait, miss me?
Where am I going? Why will you miss me?
"I wonder where you're going?"
No where.
I can never go anywhere!
I am chained to this sack of meat...
I am lost.
I am often the most informed person in the room, able only to listen and consider what I gather. Nothing said around me is missed, and I remember everything; I spend too much time dwelling on it all to be able to forget, sometimes for the worse.
But now, surely missing much, I am lost...
"Get in line!"
A man shouts at me.
He is tall- too tall- and thick, completely devoid of what one might call compassion. His hands are wrapped around his back, tightly gripping the other at the wrist as he walks along a row of men, standing stiff and tall in the hot, brutal sunshine.
"Can you hear me?"
"Yes, sir!"
A chorus of gruff, well trained voices, perfectly and expertly synchronized, echo in the dry air, eyes fierce and staring into nothing, fixed to the horizon and cautious to never look our oppressor in the eyes, lest he single out and humiliate one of us, either out of a need for rigid discipline or spite, and none of us ever sure which it was and unwilling to ask.
"Five miles, up the hill, down the backside and back to camp. Everyone arrives in under an hour, or we run it all again. Understood?"
"Yes, sir!"
A symphony of aggression.
Without another word, the man makes a dash for the horizon, and one by one each of us fall into line behind him, struggling to keep up with his frantic pace. The swirling dust from our pounding steps consumes the air around us, we struggling to breath as sweat falls in rivers down our cheeks.
"Keep it up!"
That is Frank.
Corporal Frank Todd.
I like Frank.
He is a native of New York, a man who fancies himself the dedicated group supporter. I rely on his encouragement to manage myself through the day. We had bonded first through our mutual passion for baseball, and then further on account of both of us having a wife and child back home waiting for our safe return. His daughter, Hailey, is five.
She is gorgeous.
The photo is always with him, ready to share.
"How are you holdin' up?" He asks me.
"I'm okay," I grunt. He grins.
"You don't seem okay."
I hate that he is in better shape than me.
"I'm okay," I grunt, again.
"Just keep talking to me, Max."
"I can't," and I spit. My tongue feels like it is made of sandpaper in the baking heat and fierce dry.
"You have to, or you'll focus on the pain. Don't focus on the pain, focus on me." He gestures to his face with his hands, his eyes locked to the side of my head.
"Shut up," I grunt.
He smiles.
"Go fuck yourself," he spits.
"I'm hungry."
I have no filter when I'm in pain.
"One hour, man, one hour."
"It's too fucking hot," I grumble as I wipe sweat from my forehead and fling it on the lapel of my thick green uniform. It's useless; more spills down my face and runs down my neck as quickly as I wipe.
"No shit," Frank agrees. "Who the fuck would live in this shit hole?"
"Frank, you live in Brooklyn."
"Fuck you!"
He smacks my elbow, throwing me off my rhythm; I lean and stutter step, nearly crashing into the man in front of me. He gives me a furious look, and I nod an apology and continue silently for several awkward seconds, focusing on my breathing and the rhythmic thumping of feet.
"You heard from the wife and kid this week?"
He always fell back to talking about family.
"No, not since last Thursday. You?"
"Saturday."
Seconds of silent running, grunting.
"Hailey sent me a drawing she made."
"She any good?"
"It was good enough for me."
"That's all that matters, isn't it?"
"Someday," he grunts out, "I'm gonna watch that girl graduate from a big, fancy college and get a great job and start a family, and never have to set foot in a place like this. She'll buy a house and I can move in above their garage and live the bachelor life until I finally kick it. She's gonna be my salvation."
I laugh, grunt.
"Pinning your hopes and dreams on the kid?"
"What else can I pin them on?"
He smiles.
I miss my son...
"There's some paperwork you'll need to fill out to get this process started, Mrs. Aaron."
"I hate this," she mumbles.
There are several people in the room right now. Who are they? Where did they all come from? How had I not noticed them arrive? I must be loosing a grip of my faculties; I used to notice everything, and now I seem to miss so much, the world stumbling into me rather than I discovering it...
"I understand, Mrs. Aaron, but it is for the best. You have to understand that."
Who is that man?
I don't know him...
"I don't have to understand anything."
Jenny sounds angry.
Why is she angry?
"You're doing the right thing."
"Am I? Am I?"
"You are, Jenny, you have to know that." That sounds like Mary, but it is difficult to know for sure; she is speaking softly, and the room is now swirling with conflicting noise that I can't seem to sort.
It's irritating...
"I don't know that!"
"You do!"
"I don't know anything."
And then more silence...
Where did everybody go? Why will no one address me? Jenny always speaks with me, always, but this time she says nothing, not a hello, not a goodbye; she doesn't say she loves me; she doesn't address me at all... What is wrong?
What is happening?
"Get down!"
The air is thick with smoke and dust and death, and I am squat behind an obstruction of some kind. My mind tells me, faintly, that it is a car, but I am in no condition to care. Gunfire is ripping through the air above me, and I hear men shouting.
"Move right, go! Go! Go! Go!"
On command, I shuffle across an open stretch toward another car, in the distance somewhere, unable to see much of anything. I cough, but keep my hands clutching to the metal encased in my hands.
"Go, goddamnit, Max, go! Now!"
I try to speed up with the command, but nearly stumble. A moment later, and I'm behind the other car, putting my back to the metal door and turning to face Frank, who is squatting beside me.
"Where is Jeff?" I utter, head swiveling.
"Dead."
"What?" It was all I could express.
"Jeff is dead!"
"You mean injured?"
"No, he's fucking dead!"
"How do you know that?"
"Jesus Christ!"
Was that an acceptable answer?
The ground shakes underfoot, and vaguely I now understand a change in my position. My head is against the ground, I think, or against something, and the car I was once behind seems not to be there any longer, wherever that was...
Where was that?
Where is Frank?
I don't see Frank...
I try to stand, but I can't. My muscles have left me, abandoned me in my time of most pressing need, as they always seem to do. My eyes are red with fury and agony and confusion, and I wonder if they are even working at all. I can see nothing, discern nothing from the shapeless backdrop of yellow and red.
I don't see Frank...
Where is Frank?
"Frank?" I manage... I think...
No one answers me.
"I'll always love you," softly in my ears, back in the void once again. And for the first time-
Jenny?
Is that you, Jenny?
"I'll always love you," she repeats.
I love you, too, Jenny...
She sounds like she is crying, but very softly, barely audible, like the whimper of a puppy who was left home for the day as the beloved owner left for work. It breaks my heart to hear such palpable sadness. I need to comfort her, to help her...
What is wrong?
"I'm so sorry, Max."
What for?
Why are you sorry?
"I'm so, so sorry."
Why are you sorry?
"It's going to be okay," Mary reassures.
"No," Jenny mumbles. "It's not."
Why is it not okay?
What is happen-
And, all at once, I know what's happening...
"I'm so sorry," she keeps repeating.
Oh no...
"I don't... I don't..."
Oh, Jesus...
"I love you," she whispers.
No, Jenny!
"I love you," she repeats.
No! Don't let me go!
"I love you!"
Don't kill me!
"I love you so much..."
