When The Time Comes

chapter 2; Ben

When I moved to the state of Georgia for college, the possibility of dying here didn't cross my mind. I'm 23 and that never seemed like an acceptable age to die at- not like I know what the acceptable age to die at is but, is it 75? Is it 90?

I guess I was too excited to move out for the first time, make new friends, see new places, become a different- better version of myself than think of grim things like death. It's been 8 months and I can tell you, I haven't done a single thing from that list. I haven't gone to the gym since getting a membership and on my birthday, I got one less message than I did the year before.

I force myself to leave the building, slicing the sole of my new h&m loafers that still haven't broken in and I'm afraid never will, into the cracked pavement for the few classes that actually require in-person attendance.

For some classes, I barely leave my bed and attend through a tiny lens on my laptop. I am never more grateful to technology than on those bleak mornings that I can't get out of bed.

The only tourist attraction I've gone to is the Coca Cola factory because it was the cheapest. Fifteen dollars didn't seem bad in contrast to the thirty-five dollar entry fee to the traveling circus nearby. Seeing coke bottles travel on a belt on the ceiling and drinking Russian sprite which tasted shit because an employee let me know that they were out of syrup in the machines, was hardly the southern experience I was expecting.

None of that matters now because I got a black envelope in the mail, addressed to me and stamped with a stag head on the back. I might be a little slow when it comes to the internet and what's going on in the world but even I knew what that meant. It means that I have exactly two weeks and four days left to live.

Ever since I received the letter, I have been picking apart the way I spend my time. Sometimes I stand in the shower for an hour or longer because I don't know what else to do- because what lies ahead of me can't get to me when I'm hiding in the bathroom. And if the grim reaper doesn't like that, he'll just have to haul my bare naked ass out of the shower himself.

What even is a good way to live out your last days? Do I feed the homeless or is that too predictable? The p- word. It haunts me. I'm not worried about missing out on seeing the northern lights or the biggest ball of rubber bands. But I am terrified of a predictable life.

I can't say I am sure about a lot of things but I will most definitely die on a Monday which makes me wonder just how the universe plans to smite me. Out of all the days in a week, I get picked to die on a Monday. It is as pathetic as it sounds. Why couldn't it have been a Friday?

In some religions, Friday is considered a blessed day. Good Friday, Jumu'ah. And to some, if a person dies on a Friday, it almost definitely means that you were a good person and a shoo-in for Heaven. I wouldn't have minded dying on a Friday, it would have given me one less thing to worry about. But no, I get to die on a damned Monday.

I worry I haven't done enough to deserve heaven but also not enough to go to hell, does that makes sense? Is there another place for people who haven't done much of anything? An intermediate place where people like me get to just hover around.

Passing away on a Monday sounds boring and I guess, somewhat an accurate description of the life I've lived. I will be the guy who died that one Monday in September whose name gets confused in an early café conversation between two aged neighborhood gossips who meet every Sunday because they live alone and their families don't visit anymore.

What was that boy's name, Bert, Bernie? The one who passed last week.

Wasn't it Barry? I swear it was Barry.