One Last Story

A man spends his last moments telling his story one last time.

                The room was old, white and sterile. The blankets, pillows, sheets, floor, walls, lights; all white. There were no windows, just a smallish bed in the corner, a sink with a mini mirror above it, a toilet, a circular table with two chairs and a closet that held all of my clothes; identical robes all neatly lined up and ironed.

I spent most of my time here. Getting meals three times a day from the nurses that tended to me, new sheets and clothes every week. Other than those quick, short occurrences, I was alone.

Not that it bothered me any. Solitude was where I thrived. I’ve found that where I once loved to be, on stage, entertaining my friends and strangers, making people laugh and cry, is now just a faint memory. I am no longer the man I once was. That man is now my shadow.

But enough about me. To be honest with you, I don’t fancy talking about myself. I find that I am just as much a ruthless snake as the criminals the prowl the streets.  After she died, I can no longer feel emotions, no longer find the joy in life that was once there.  I am numb, cold; just like the room I was in.

The she I am referring to, in case you may be wondering, is Olivia. Olivia was a beautiful girl. She had long locks of blonde hair, the kind that almost beckoned you to touch its soft, feathery texture. She had a small heart shaped face and bright green eyes; so full of life. And how I loved those eyes, looking into them, seeing the passion, the love for life she always carried with her.

Oh, how I envied that.

We were perfect matches for each other. She knew me and I knew her. We were even able to finish each other’s sentences. She needed me just as much as I needed her and our love never failed us. I loved being around her, she made my heart skip a beat at just the thought of her voice, so you can imagine how elated I was when she was in my presence.

Out of all the things I miss from my old life, there is nothing I will miss more than Olivia.

I try not to think about her much, yet I know I will never get over it. I can almost feel the hole that her death has created.

Dr. Fellows tells me not to dwell on it so much, but I can hardly hear him. He tells me the same things every day and every night.

“Steve, you have to stop. The more you badger yourself with her memory, the worse off you get. It isn’t your fault she’s dead, nor could you have done anything to change that fact.”

  And I tell him over and over that someone cannot just ‘get over’ something like this. He continues to tell me it was 8 years ago and I tell him 8 years is hardly enough. Then he sighs and sends me back to my room.

 I know that Dr. Fellows has given up on me. My days have clearly been numbered; is there no other reason for the nurses being so kind to me?

As much as I enjoy being alone, I do not wish to be forgotten.

Dr. Fellows told me that if there was anything that I might want to do before I die, I had best to it now.

And that is, simply, the reason why I am writing this. Not to be forgotten to time.

On my last days, I wish to feel that I accomplished something and now as I finish this, I feel that I have. 

Will I miss being alive?

Perhaps. But as much as I have already lost, how can I say that death is not, in some ways, better?

Well, my hand is cramping and it is quarter to 6.  I have no more to say and no more to tell.

As many times as I have told this story, as many people who have heard it, I realize there is no one else I can tell.

Except you.

                              Yours Most Sincerely,

Stephen