All That We Have

“Get well soon,” my granddaughter says as she's ushered out of my hospital room by my daughter-in-law.

I won't be getting better soon, but nobody has the heart to tell her. I am dying of brain cancer. I haven't been out of my bed in three months. The doctor won't give me any direct information, but I know what my outlook is if they've placed me in Hospice. That's where you go to die comfortably.

The IV in my arm is running low. A nurse should be here soon to replenish it. It's one of the few things I have left to look forward to. My family barely visits anymore; the hospital is a two-hour drive from home. I understand though. It's hard to watch your father die slowly of something no one can control. I'm not scared though, I have my next life to look forward to.

The constant beeping of my heart rate monitor is slowly driving me crazy. Sometimes, I wish it would just end already, but I'm not sure if I'm ready to die just yet. I've been in and out of this hospital for a long time now. Last summer, I broke my hip. I've been confined to a wheelchair ever since. Losing your mobility after having it for almost seventy years is a terrifying thing.

I can hear the Doctor talking outside of my room. Another man down the hall has just died, and his family can't afford to fly him to their hometown for the funeral. They're going to stick his body in a freezer until somebody drives up to collect him. I can't stop myself from thinking about my fate. My family lives far away, will the same thing happen to me?

The Doctor looks in my room as I lay here, pretending to be asleep. Maybe I'll learn something about my condition. He eyes a clipboard before sighing. The usually cheerful nurse has a sad look on her face. I know I'm close to dying. They're keeping something from me. Who do they think they are? I have a right to know about whatever is going on with me!

The reality of my situation hits me like a brick wall for the hundredth time today. Now I'm not sure if I want to know how bad I've got it. I don't know if I could handle knowing that I'll die tomorrow. How will my family react? The last thing I told my daughter was that I never wanted to see her again. That was twenty years ago. I've regretted that every day since; even more so now that I'm on my death bed.

She can't even be bothered to visit me. At least I know she made it in life. She's a lawyer. The day she got accepted to that Ivy-League school was the proudest day of my life. I never got to see her graduate. After all these years, she still won't answer my calls. I shouldn't have let something so simple as a religious argument get in between us.

My son may not have been as successful, but at least he still goes to God's house on Sundays. I'm proud of him for that. He's a mechanic for a big franchise. It's not much, but it's honest work, and it puts bread on his table.

The nurse enters my room, but she won't look me in the eye. I didn't even get a smile today. Normally she greets me with an exaggerated hello, and a big grin. I miss that. I still thought I'd survive back then. I know better than that now.

She wordlessly changes out the bag that my IV is connected to. Normally she'll tell me a little bit about some sort of change in whatever is going into my wrist, but today she just mumbled something before hurrying out of the room.

I wish I had somebody to talk to. My son insists on keeping me all alone, though. Says it would get annoying having to hear somebody ramble on all day. Right now, I just wish I could hear somebody that talks too much. There isn't any topic that would bother me right now, as long as I get to hear somebody.

The Doctor enters my room shortly after the Nurse left. He's got a phony smile on, but something's different. His practiced expression falters for a moment as he checks out another clipboard at the bottom of my bed. He gives me some lie about 'looking better' before leaving the room.

I wonder how many days I have left? It's a sad thing, when you measure the rest of your life in days. Maybe hours for all I know. I don't even know what day it is anymore. I lost track of that a week ago. I haven't cared enough to ask, not that I could do so very effectively. I haven't been able to speak very well ever since the cancer spread to its more recent boundaries.

A hiccup in my heart rate brings me to better awareness. It happens every now and then, but its been happening more frequently lately. I'll probably go later today, if not tomorrow. It's probably for the best. I'm nothing but a burden anymore, ever since my medical bills got more expensive than my social security. I wish I'd gotten better life insurance. I don't think I'd get a very good deal if I tried to get a little coverage today.

I wonder if I've been good enough in life to get to Heaven? I've followed the Good Book all of my life, but I'm still not sure. I guess nobody's sure at this point in their life. Will the Lord be merciful of my sins?

Does the Lord even exist?

No! I can't be doubting him now. Not when I'm so close to meeting him. It's just my nerves. I know I'm going to his kingdom soon, and it's normal to be thinking these thoughts. It's all in my head.

The sun is setting now. I reckon I've got about thirty minutes left before I can't see it anymore. I've gotten used to using the shadows to tell time. There's a clock in here, but the batteries died a while ago. Nobody thinks it's important enough to change them. Judging by the time it gets dark, I would be able to tell what the actual time is, but I don't know what day it is. It was so close to daylight savings time when I lost track, that I don't know if it's seven o' clock, or five.

I can see a plane landing at the airport nearby. I watch them land and take off all day. It's a busy airport; there's usually a bunch of flights every day. It's not often I can look out the window without seeing a plane. I've never been in a plane before. I wonder what it's like to be that high above the ground? I get a sinking feeling in my chest when I realize that I'll never know.

The pain is back. It starts with a dull ache in my head, but pretty soon it's going to erupt into a crippling sharp pain that renders me near incapable of coherent thought. I've never felt this kind of pain all of my life, and that's saying something. I've felt a lot of pain; I used to be a diesel mechanic. Dropping one of the heads of a semi's engine on your foot is painful, but it's nothing compared to this.

The Doctor won't give me any more painkillers than are necessary. He says they should still be working when I cry out in pain, and he tells my family that I'm just being dramatic. I hear screaming all around me all day. I know they're all suffering from the same thing. He won't give them any more of the medication either.

The pain is getting worse. I want to pull my hand up to my head and try to rub my temples, but I can't muster the strength to move. I haven't been able to move my hands more than a couple of inches for a few days now. In about an hour, the pain will get bad enough for me to start screaming. Then I go through that for another hour before they finally give me another dose. It's all routine for me now.

Only a faint glow is left of the Sun as it lowers itself over the city skyline. If only I could see the treeline at my house one more time. I haven't been to my house in ten years. My wife got that in the divorce. Ever since then, I've been living in a retirement home. At least when I was there, I had somebody to talk to. Those old people always wanted to play some card game, but they were great company when my family wasn't with me.

I get a terrible feeling in my chest before I cough up a mixture of blood and bile. I'll have to wait until the nurse visits me in a little while before that gets cleaned up. I can't even wipe my face anymore. Maybe the blood is a sign that I'll die soon. I kind of hope so, as bad as that sounds. I know I shouldn't want to die, but it's hard to maintain the will to live, when there's nothing worth living for.

My heart rate monitor is fluctuating constantly now. Maybe that's a good sign. Or a bad sign. However you want to take it.

I can't help but let out a groan as the pain in my head gets worse. Maybe I can muster up the energy to ask for painkillers when the nurse comes to check on my heart rate. I hope so. The pain comes in waves. It's always there, but every few seconds, it grows in intensity for a short while before subsiding to a dull ache that never leaves my attention.

The Doctor and Nurse rush into my room. Maybe my heart rate is worse than I thought. They're both shouting things at each other. I close my eyes and say a quick prayer, hoping they'll stop; hoping that the pain will end this time.

My vision starts to blur as my brain begins to shut down. It's going to happen today. Probably within the next couple of minutes. I wonder if my granddaughter is home yet? I hope they break it to her gently. I've never been able to tell her how much I love her, but she's the greatest thing to happen to me in these last few years of my life.

I can't hear them yelling anymore; my ears are failing me now. I can see their lips moving, but I can't hear anything except the pain. The Doctor is doing all sorts of different things to me that don't really make sense. I guess they probably would if I had any medical knowledge.

I can feel myself scream, but I can't even hear my own last garbled screeching. My vision has almost completely left me. I can only make out basic shapes now. I know that two more nurses have entered the room. It won't help, though. I'm going to die, and only God can stop it.

The pain vanishes as my vision leaves me. I can't see, I can't hear. I'm finally feeling peaceful.

I wonder what Heaven is like?

I ponder that last thought as I slip from life. A wave of panic floods over me as I see what awaits me.

Nothing.

Nothing awaits me. There is no afterlife.

This short, miserable existence is all that we have.

Euphoria in a Box

 I've become a slave to evil today, and I'm not scared at all.

I should probably explain. Yesterday was Halloween, or as I like to call it, “The Night of Transcendence.”

Me and a few other people I'd just met were going to wait for dark and pull a few pranks; saran-wrap some cars, egg some houses, etc. At about seven-thirty, I show up at our meeting place, the local park. We were alone, being that the privately-owned park closes at six. Bill, the guy who introduced me to the others brought most of the supplies. There were three others in the group besides me. There was Bill, the talkative guy who doesn't know when to quit, there was Sarah, Bill's girlfriend, who was kind of reluctant to be there, and there was Fred, the quiet guy.

After meeting up, we all hopped into Fred's beat-up old '96 Bonneville and hit the town. We cruised down 19^th street, which was in a sort of less-than-reputable neighborhood, casing the place, trying to find houses that looked empty; we didn't want to get caught.

Bill spotted our first target: a yellow, low-income house. You know, the kind that looks exactly the same as the one next to it? Fred pulled into the driveway, and shut the car off. Bill ran around to the trunk and got out the eggs. “Let's get rid of the eggs first,” he said. “We don't want them to stink up the car while we're driving around.”

We all agreed on that, and the house was coated with a thin layer of egg relatively quick. Sarah stayed in the car the whole time; she looked as if she didn't want to be there. Flooded with adrenaline, we all jumped back in the car and headed farther down the street. That's when I first saw our next and last target: A tall two-story house that didn't seem to fit in with the neighborhood around it. It was painted off-white, with a wrap-around porch, and a six-foot high chain-link fence.

“We've got to wrap that car,” said Fred, pointing to the Camaro sitting in the driveway. It was an old '69 Z28.

“That thing's a work of art,” I said in protest. “What if we scratch the paint?”

“How would we scratch paint with plastic wrap?” asked Bill. I didn't know, to be honest; I just didn't want to do anything to the old car.

I shrugged my shoulders and we parked just outside the fence. Sarah once again elected to stay behind, much to Bill's dismay.

The three of us hopped the fence, earning a few scrapes from the bare wire on top. Bill ran up to the car and tore open the first roll of the plastic wrap. Fred ran around the car lengthwise, while me and Bill wrapped the car vertically, tossing the roll to each other underneath, and handing it over, across the top. With Fred running around the car, we quickly built up a thick, woven layer of wrap around the it.

“Now it's a work of art,” Bill joked. I couldn't help but let out a small chuckle.

“We've still got some eggs,” said Fred. “Wanna hit this house, too?” Bill nodded and we sent Fred over the fence to grab them out of the trunk.

“You'll never guess what I saw,” he said upon his return. “There's a basement door on the side of the house, and it's unlocked!”

“What are you planning on doing about it?” I asked, not knowing how we could possibly exploit that.

“Leave the eggs in the basement to rot!” Bill and Fred said in unison. It was a good plan.

We walked to the edge of the fence so Bill could tell Sarah what we were about to do, only to find her outside of the car already. Bill told her the plan, and she immediately tried to talk him out of it.

“You told me we were going to pull a few innocent pranks,” she argued. “Now you're going to break into someone's house?”

Bill sighed and told her that we'd only be in there for a few minutes to hide the eggs in various places, and then we'd be out. Fred was behind him nodding the whole time, and Sarah soon gave in.

“Fine,” she said angrily. “But I've got a bad feeling about this. Make sure you do it quickly.”

Bill assured her we would, and we ran off around the side of the house. The basement was cold, but the old man that owned the house had left the dim light on, making it easy for us to navigate the damp space. Bill smiled while placing eggs in hard-to-find places, such as under a lamp he found in a dark corner of the room, and in the cushions of an old couch.

All of a sudden, I hear a creaking in the floor around us. Bill and Fred didn't seem to notice it, but it sent a shiver down my spine. Maybe the old man was awake? I told the other two about the sound, but they told me I was hearing things; this was a very old house, after all. I wasn't convinced, but it didn't really bother me too much.

Not five minutes later, I was sticking a couple of eggs inside a suitcase in a far corner, when I heard a repressed yell, and Bill cursing quietly. I rushed over to where he was, and inquired about what had happened.

“I hit my foot on this stupid box,” he gasped. “My toe still hurts.”

I looked down at the box while he continued to hold his foot, and knelt down next to it. It was made of wood, and about seven feet long. The age of the box showed; the corners were splitting at the seams, and the old iron hinges were covered in rust. Even with all of those flaws, it was easy to see the box had been beautiful before it was reduced to this condition. The surface of the lid was carved, revealing words in a language unknown to me carved in relief, and the depiction of a face near one end.

A battle scene was depicted on the rest of the box, making the face's euphoric smile stand out, drawing me to it. Its eyes were dark holes in its head, as if they were missing, but the rest of the face was human, for the most part.

Bill sat in the corner, whining about his toe, while I uncovered the box. Fred questioned my motives, but I told him I simply wanted to take a look inside. It was a stupid thing to do, but I had to know what a box this beautiful was made to hold.

Running my fingers along the edge, I found a key taped to the side of the box, and inserted it into the ornate lock that rested at the bottom of the battlefield. The rusty key turned easier than I expected, given the amount of rust on both the key and the lock. With a click, the box popped open an inch, and I lifted the lid to its full height.

The inside of the box was empty, except for an envelope, and a thin pile of dust. The beauty of the exterior continued to the inside. The interior of the box was cushioned with red silk lined with gold thread. It was almost regal in appearance, and I felt kind of sad at the condition it was allowed to deteriorate into.

I reached into the box and picked up the envelope. I wasn't about to leave without knowing something more about it. Inside the envelope were a couple of old polaroids. The first picture showed a man in his thirties waxing an old Camaro in the heat of summer. It must have been the man who owned the house we were in. The next depicted the same man with his arm around a woman his age, and the two were smiling. There was a man standing in their yard, dressed all in black with his back facing the camera. I couldn't see his face, but something about his image made me happy.

I moved on to the next picture, which depicted the owner of the house, sitting on his porch, ten years older. The black-clad man was still in his yard, so I figured that it must be a statue, even though I hadn't seen it on our way in. The statue was a little closer to the house, this time standing only ten feet away from the exterior wall. Again, the image of the statue made me happy. I could understand why the man wanted to move it closer to the house.

In the picture, the man was no longer smiling. Instead, he had a sort of sad, tortured look on his face. His wife was standing next to him, and bore the same haunted expression. A flicker of sadness ran over me before the image of the statue called me back, and I was happy again.

I went to the next photo, and it depicted the same scene as before, but with three differences: the woman was gone, there was a second statue, and the two statues were now facing the camera. The faces of the two statues appeared human, with smiles stretched across their faces. Both the statues again made me happy, despite the empty voids where their eyes should have been.

Bill shook my shoulder, bringing me out of my trance.

“Where's Fred?” he asked. “Did you see him leave?”

I shook my head. “I've been staring at these pictures,” I replied.

Bill looked genuinely worried, so we searched around the basement a little more. We didn't find him, so we decided it was best to leave. He'd probably gotten scared and left us there.

When we exited the basement, we could see that it was almost dawn. The subtle glow of the rising sun was just barely visible over the horizon. Fearing that we would get caught, we ran to the driveway and hopped the fence again. Fred's ugly Bonneville was still sitting there, but him and Sarah were gone.

“Why would they leave the car here?” Bill wondered aloud. “Fred loves this ugly thing; he'd never just leave it here for me to drive back.

I shrugged my shoulders, unable to think of a reason. I didn't care about the car anymore. I was struck with the sudden desire to see if the two statues from the picture were in the front yard. I climbed back over the fence, followed by Bill, who didn't want to be left alone, and we walked to the area where the pictures were taken.

There were four statues, all facing us. Bill looked slightly worried.

“Weren't there only two statues in those pictures you were looking at?”

I nodded in agreement, wondering where the other two had come from. We both decided to get a closer look at the four statues, and walked closer to them. Unlike when viewing them through the pictures, I got a horrible feeling of dread upon nearing the four specters, but I was drawn to them, nonetheless. I could tell Bill felt the same, because he walked towards them in time with my footsteps with a sort of scared look, and we were soon upon them.

I stared into the eyes, or lack thereof, of the statue nearest me. I don't know if it was my imagination, but I doubt it; the thing's smile stretched wider before the world went dark.

There are now six statues in the old man's yard, and I don't care that I'm one of them. As a matter of fact,

I kind of feel like smiling.