Thanatophobia (fear of dying)

Sunday

Sunday

“Well, It seems like Nomecide is not having quite the peace it would like on this day of rest. I’m reporting from the Spring Hill’s Care Home where elderly woman, Myra Abigail purportedly died after an accident in her room at the facility. On the scene, it was evident that she had broken a number of bones, puncturing her vital organs after a hard fall. Falls tend to have dire consequences for the elderly due to the lack of calcium in their systems and the occurrence, though not usually as brutal, isn’t unheard of. However, the family of Myra is now trying to sue both the caretakers for inattentiveness of their patients and the deceased woman’s doctor who had failed to diagnose Myra with potentially fatal osteoporosis.”

I turned the screen off, shaking my head. It wasn’t uncommon for someone to die in Nomecide, given the size of the city, but I still wasn’t fond of hearing that another life had passed almost every time I turned the television to the 5 pm news. Yet, I always watched it without fail. It may have been hard to take the death, disease and disaster day after day, but I felt that it was necessary to be constantly reminded that the world wasn’t as idyllic as it often seemed to be. I was drawn to the true nature of reality- in a sense, both the good and the bad.

And, as cliché as it sounds, I felt that I couldn’t try and change things for the better while simultaneously avoiding the world’s intimate horrors.  

Because of this, I’ve often been called an idealist. But, in reality, I’m not that at all. In fact, I’m a realist. An idealist believes that all the word’s problems can be solved and that one day all people will join hands singing Kumbaya.

I have no such foolish notions.

There are problems. Life itself is a fickle thing. It comes and it goes before the blink of an eye, leaving memories, loves, and unfinished business behind in the mortal realm. Because of that, there will always be suffering and pain. But, I know that at the same time, I could never live with myself without doing something to help. I don’t think I can solve problems, but I can try to relieve the pain.

Society, however, often resorts to believing in false, self-centered realities, making people outwardly indifferent to the problems surrounding them. And, because of this, the fact that I see the suffering and have the desire to help, contradicts the notions of society’s self-constructed naiveté. I don’t coincide with what they wish to believe, so I’m merely shoved off as some idealist whose foolishness will only lead to a life of broken ideals and fallen hopes.

Even though I wish that wasn’t true, I’ve come to accept it. It’s impossible to change human nature. You can only wish to evade it on and individual level.  

That reminded me…my shift volunteering at the hospital was set to start in twenty minutes.  Quickly, I changed into my uniform, placing my identification card loosely around my neck.

Flicking off the lights, I closed the door to my apartment softly, but cried out when I felt a sharp sting on the soles of my feet. I shifted my weight, and heard a crunch. Glass was littered on the doorstep.

 Quickly, I gathered up a dustpan and broom, cleaning it up before anyone else could step on it. I remarked the odd red color of it. It was beautiful, but at the same time reminded me of the blood-red color of my hospital uniform a bit too much. Once the mess was cleaned, I noticed a black smudge on the floor. Conscious of any pieces I may have missed, I leaned down, inspecting the marks. They were almost illegible, but I could almost make out what appeared to be letters. A, B, C, D… Perhaps some kid was practicing writing letters in the hallway. By the looks of it, it’d been there for ages. Smiling faintly, I wished there were still kids in the building; I love children.