I watch as the needle pierces my flesh. There is a sting and after a short while I begin drifting, leaving my body behind. A warm tingling replaces the heaviness and the steady, throbbing pain. I make an effort to raise my arm but I am lost and I find that I have no great desire to find myself. I watch from afar as my mouth twists into a smile. The sterile blips of the medical equipment fade and leave me in a claustrophobic silence. Not even my own breathing echoes through the room and for a time it is as though I am finally dead. I do not know how long it is until I finally lose consciousness. Eventually I wake and become aware of others in the room and I hear their voices from a great distance, pale and insubstantial like plumes of steam slithering and twisting in the air. I abandon my attempt to understand. Three shapes glide about my bed, one robed in white and the others in brown. Their features are empty, blank pages to my eyes. I feel a hand upon my shoulder, the pressure warm and heavy. Someone is speaking to me slowly, almost deliberately. I turn to face them but I cannot speak. A low gurgling escapes my lips and I reach to grasp the hand on my shoulder. They leave a short while later and I am alone once more.
I look up at the clock only to find that my eyes have betrayed me, the clock hovering just out of sight. I journey on, struck deaf and dumb by that which has been dealt to me.
*
They enter the room with small steps, their gait uneven and halting. There is something painfully fragile about the demeanor of those who visit me. The silence is thick enough to taste, my graze locked upon them as they stand frozen in the doorway. I understand their hesitation. They are walking out onto the ice and they have no way of knowing when they might plunge in.
“How are you?”
“Fine. I don’t feel much.”
“Oh. Well, that’s good I guess.”
“Yeah. Thanks for coming by.”
“No problem, man.”
“So what’s new?”
“Not a whole lot. Football team is missing you, haven’t won a game since you…left. And of course everyone’s gearing up for graduation.”
It seems only fitting that my friends should begin the first leg of their journey just as my travels come to an end. They begin speaking again, almost without pause. Perhaps they sense my bitterness, or maybe they seek only to fill the silence.
“We all miss you, man. Everyone at school is thinking about you.”
“Yeah, it’s true. Everyone is rooting for you. We know you can beat this.”
“Unlikely.”
“Don’t think that way, dude. My mom is a nurse, she says having a good attitude makes a difference.”
“It’s a little hard to maintain morale when I’m shitting into a bedpan on a daily basis.” They continue as though I have not spoken.
“Anything you need, we’re good for it. We can visit as much as you want.”
“We’ve started fundraisers, we’ve had assemblies… it’s the whole kit! Everyone is behind you.”
Everyone is behind me, their breath held in anticipation of my last. Like carrion birds whose hunger has been replaced by pity. I would rather be devoured. It has always puzzled me as to why the prospect of imminent death encourages such kindness in others. Perhaps they are all reminded of the fragility and impermanence of their own existence and hope for similar kindness themselves. Perhaps fleeting kindness to a dying man is a commitment anyone is capable of. I taste something bitter in my mouth. They do their best to hide it but their glances poke and prod me as a child would a piece of road-kill.
