A Good Death

It was a sunny, but cold Sunday morning, when Herbert Wallace woke up from vivid dreams with the absolute certainty that he had less than one day left of his life. Somehow, without a shadow of a doubt in his heart, he knew this to be a fact.

            He got out of bed and went to the bathroom to look at himself in the mirror. Examining his reflection for a long while, trying to determine whether some mysterious illness has perhaps afflicted him in his sleep, he saw nothing out of the ordinary. His face was the same that had looked back at him for the last twenty eight years of his life. A fringe of dark hair falling freely until just above his eyes. There was nothing there that could indicate that he was to die soon.

            Satisfied, yet uneasy with what he saw in the mirror, Herbert went into his kitchen and put on a pot of coffee and some toast. Once ready, Herbert put two slices of toast on a plate, poured himself a cup from the pot, and sat down at the kitchen table. While eating, he tried to recall to himself the dreams that had troubled his sleep the night before.

            He was running through the city, looking for something very important. He didn't know what. Each time he felt close, it escaped, remaining just barely out of his grasp. Confused, Herbert gave up trying to find the origin of his knowledge in the faint remains of the dreams.

            Having finished his coffee and feeling a warm, Herbert retrieved his bathrobe from its peg in the bathroom, refilled his cup, and went to the balcony. The cold air filled his lungs, and with each breath he felt the last remnants of drowsiness leaving his body. He sat down in the balcony, in the garden chair he kept there, and took a long sip of his coffee.

            Up until that day, Herbert's life was not very remarkable. He rarely thought about it, but if asked if he was happy he wouldn't have known the answer. He had worked at a small law firm ever since he had graduated from university. He lived alone, had no girlfriend or close friends. He also had no hobbies, as work took all of his time and energy. When he thought about it then, his life up to that moment seemed a waste. He vaguely remembered having some dreams and aspirations when he was starting his law degree; that he had desired a different path to the one he was on. The hopes he had held as a younger man had seemingly evaporated from his mind. Herbert drank the rest of his coffee and went back inside for a refill.

            'I don't want to die like this', he said to himself. 'What's the purpose of this, if when I die all traces of my existence disappear? Herbert sighed helplessly.

            Looking at his bookcase, without noticing any of the titles, a memory had come to him. He remembered one of his history classes. It was about a caste of warriors who lived by a code that demanded that they die an honourable death in battle. They called it a good death. He couldn't well go out to die in battle on a Sunday morning in twenty-first century England. The idea was worthwhile though, he thought.

            Somehow, in support of this idea, Herbert washed, dressed in his best suit, and left the house. On his way out of his apartment he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror and felt good about the way he looked facing death. It could have been worse.

            The streets outside of his apartment building were more or less empty. Herbert decided to go to a nearby cafe. He sat down and ordered a cup of coffee. Once it arrived, he took a little brown notebook and a fountain pen out of his coat pocket. On his walk, he had wondered how to proceed. He could visit his mother, but they never got along, and he did not feel he had anything nice to say to her. Instead, he wrote a letter saying goodbye. He wrote another to his brother. He ripped the letters out of his notebook, folded them up and intending to send them later, put them in his pocket.

            Feeling hungry, Herbert went to his favourite restaurant by the river. It was a nice quiet place, with a good view of the park. He liked bringing girls there on dates, though that happened so rarely that he usually dined alone.

            A stocky waiter with a moustache showed him to a table with a view of the boardwalk. As soon as he sat down, Herbert ordered a pint of beer and a rare steak with chips. The beer arrived quickly and he drank it greedily, instantly ordering another, which arrived with his steak. The beer filled his stomach, so Herbert slowed his pace and ate savouring each bite.

            He left the restaurant with a smile on his face. The cool air in his lungs made his steps light as he made his way towards the end of the pier. Looking down into the water he could see that if anyone were to fall in, the waves would drag them into the rocky shore, doubtlessly breaking their neck. Herbert climbed onto the balustrade and looked down. He closed his eyes and leaned forward.

            Suddenly a voice behind him spoke, and a strong hand pulled him back, making him fall painfully onto the wooden deck of the pier.

'Woah.. mate.. you might've tumbled in!' The voice belonged to a bearded homeless man. 'Why'd you want to do something stupid like that?'

'I was going to die today anyway. It made sense to do it on my own terms', replied Herbert truthfully.

'So the way you thought to do that was to jump in there? Who does anythin' 'cause of dreams anyway? They don't ruddy mean 'nything.'

'You don't understand.. I know I'm going to die today regardless of anything else I might do. I'd rather do this than wait for a heart attack on my couch or for a bus to hit me.'

'Boy, yesterday I woke thinkin' I was rich as them folks in the big buildings in London. I dreamed I was rich, I woke thinkin' I was rich, but I still woke up in a ditch covered in shi..' The man cut himself off with laughter.

'Please just go, I want to die in peace. It won't make anyone a difference how I do it.'

'Fine.. Fine boy. You got any money? Dead folk don't need it, but I surely do. You could give up your coat too, mmm? It looks like a mighty fine one, shame to throw it in the water like some trash.'

'Sure, take it and go', said Herbert after putting his wallet and watch into one of his coats pockets and handing it to the homeless man.

            A woman's cry for help pierced the air. Without thinking, Herbert ran towards the source of the sound. In an alley coming off the boardwalk he found two men mugging a young woman. She was crying and trying to find her wallet in her purse.

            Herbert yelled out to them, and the two ran off. Herbert had forgotten that his phone was in his coat. The woman called the police.

            'These two grabbed me, and like, pulled me into this alley, and constable, I'm sure I'd have been raped or worse but this man saved me.. Oh look, he's awake.' To Herbert the woman's voice sounded as though it belonged to an angel. He smiled and she smiled back.

            Herbert then told his version of the situation to the police, who then let him go home. The girl's name was Vanessa. She had insisted on cooking dinner for him the next day, if he was free. Not having the heart to reject her, Herbert accepted. He then walked home with a spring in his step.

            'Maybe', he thought, 'the dream was just to tell me that my old way of life was to end. That makes sense, right?' Herbert was certain, even, that it would be so. He even thought he remembered reading something similar in a book about the interpretation of dreams. The author claimed that dreams merely revealed the hidden wishes and desires of individuals. 'This must be it', Herbert thought. He no longer felt he was going to die.

            Realizing that he had left his house keys in the jacket he had given away to the homeless man, Herbert took the spare keys from his apartment building's attendant and then headed for the stairs cheerfully.

            Twelve minutes later, an ambulance came for him. The attendant had called it after hearing the racket caused by Herbert's fall down three flights of stairs.

            Herbert Wallace though, had died before he was halfway down the second flight of stairs, having shattered his spine on the concrete stairs leading to his apartment.