Ballad of the Cane

A short story I wrote about a disabled veteran's final moments.

He walked into the three bedroom apartment that he shared with two of his closest friends.  They had gotten the apartment a few months back; before everything started to go downhill.  The simple, rounded, cane that he supported his leg with made a solid thud against the hardwood flooring in the single hallway that ran from the living room down past all three bedrooms.  His soft shoes were soaked in rainwater and left small smudges of wetness on the floor as he hobbled his way down the hall.  The two doors closest to the front door were closed; he heard the slight sound of snoring coming from one.  They’re all asleep, he thought.

The door to his room was parted open slightly by the distinct clash of the wooden cane and the doorframe.  He stopped and quivered; worried that he had woken up one of his roommates with the noise.  Nobody had made any sound that indicated a stirred sleep, so he knew he was in the clear.  His room was the only one with a bathroom attached to it.  Since he was paying the largest sum of the rent, he got first pick.  The small light bulb that hung in the center of the room gave little light to work with, but he made due.

Three small pills clattered around in the orange tinted container he held in his hand.  The label had some long name printed on the side that he was sure nobody could ever pronounce.  He chuckled at a joke him and his friend had made a few hours ago about the fact.  Any other night, he would have just stumbled in the door like usual; drunk off his a*s, loud, and obnoxious.  Tonight, however, was different.  Tonight, he had the chance to think about everything before he got offered that blissful toxin.  Tonight he pushed away the alcohol, at least until now.

The night was set like some terroristic movie plot.  It was raining outside; the wind made the windowpanes clatter with every gust, the house was quiet and still and everything that could possibly go wrong would.  That is if he was in a horror film; which he wasn’t.  No, this was just his life.

Daniel is a retired specialist with the U.S. Army.  He was stationed overseas in Kandahar province, Afghanistan when he was injured.  One day, while out on patrol, his unit was ambushed.  In the fray of bullets and terrifying screams, Daniel was shot.  He had pulled three bullets out of his leg before he finally started to go into shock.  He was branded a hero and given an honorable discharge.  Now, the only thing he could think about was this rundown apartment and the constant pain he feels in his leg on a daily basis.  He always had flashbacks to what happened overseas.

His bedroom was lit only by the glow of the small light bulb in the bathroom.  His bed invited him to sleep; its sheets already ruffled up from the night before.  Tonight, however, he knew he wouldn’t be sleeping in his bed.  A noose hung from the ceiling fan fixture in the center of the room.  The only way to access it would be the computer chair from the living area they had set up when they moved in.  His shoes made another pair of footprints into the kitchen where he popped the three pills into his mouth and washed them down with a shot of their finest alcohol.  He thought it sad that his last drink was cheap wine from the corner store down the road.

The computer chair made a low rumble as he pushed it down the hall and into his bedroom.  The noose taunted him, hanging there, as if he was coming face to face with an old playground bully.  He pushed the chair inside and gently nudged the door.  It came to a slow stop just before it closed.  The light fixture above him flickered before fully turning on.  All of the rooms did that.  They could never figure out why.

He stepped up onto the chair after locking the wheels and settling them into the carpeted floor.  He gently laid a small, folded sheet of paper next to his cane, which rested on his bed.  It took a bit of struggling, but he stood himself up onto the chair, which raised him up enough to slip the noose around his neck.  He muttered a short prayer and then kicked away the chair.  His friends had awakened from the clutter of the chair falling over and rushed into his room, but it was too late.  His body hung limp and his eyes were shut tight.

The older of the two crept over and picked up the note as the other one called an ambulance.  He started to read:

My friends,

 I am deeply sorry that you have to be reading this letter, but I cannot go on dealing with this constant pain. The sorrow you will want to feel for me is understandable, but I must request one thing. Do not weep for me. Do not shed a tear for my selfishness. Do not feel that sorrow for long. Instead, I pray that you live your life in the negative of mine. Rejoice with your pleasures and feel always the gentle glow of happiness. Strive to succeed and let no man stand in the path of full-hearted joy. Do everything in your power to make your life worth living. And when the times get rough, remember that there are better alternatives to alcohol.

 

My family,

I expect that this may come as a shock. Considering that all I have shown you is pure happiness. The guilt I feel for that is unbearable. To my mother, I do not wish to bring you sorrow, but know the pain washed over me with such intensity that made my teeth grind together. To my father, the pride I took in being of service to this country was immense. My siblings, may you find happiness, joy, and love in your futures.

 

            He looked up from the note and took one final view of his friend. On the reverse side of the paper he wrote three simple words, you’re forgiven brother, and set it back next to his cane.  One last long stare at the cane was met with a tear.  “Be at peace now.”