One Last Breath

A complex examination of the psyche of someone who is in eternal suffering, and a look at the relationship between love, pain, and life (or death).

My mother is the first to speak. She was always the one to insist on running the show, but this time, the words come to her like a flurry of cotton balls. There are no tears, not a single one, dripping slowly from the corner of her normally bright hazel eyes. Those same eyes are now empty, showing nothing but a void into nothingness; it was like the spirit of death had taken residence in her own soul, despite all my previous beckoning for that beautiful spirit to join myself instead. Oh well—she won’t be like that for long, I suppose.

            I can see her mouth moving now, slowly but with intent, using every syllable to her advantage. It was like the atrium of dark that once veiled her eyes was suddenly brightened with a fluorescent glow, and her determined words echo down past the cemetery and into the valley beyond. I can’t hear much, but from what I can tell she’s relaying a tale of some sort, an anecdote, probably with both sentimental value and feelings of hope. She was always a fighter. You know, I remember one time—this was quite a while ago now—when my great-grandmother passed away. It was a day much like this, except that time the sun was peeking behind a grey hazy partition in the sky. I remember her speaking again, with the same determined tone and gestures of deliverance, of hope. I remember wondering how she could convey such passionate words in such a self-assured fashion considering the rather dire circumstances. This is another one of those times, except the sun has not made any appearance yet—I don’t really expect it to, in all honesty.

            I can’t tell exactly what she’s saying… but I don’t really care. I didn’t want all of this. In fact, I wonder myself why I am even here observing this pathetic display—but for one person. As my mother continues her sure-to-be-inspiring eulogy—and I mean that with sincerity, not condescendingly—I scan the sea of chairs for one single face…

It is absent.

Suddenly, with a flash of light like a flaming arrow piercing the sky brings standing in a damp, sombre basement. I can no longer see my mother, in her black mourning dress, nor can I see anyone else sitting morosely under the bland canvas that acts as a barrier between the eternal rains of heaven and the corporeal melancholy of Earth. Suddenly it feels like that mundane canvas is lifted, and those cherubic rains begin to pour down despite the ceiling of my enclosure. I can feel the burn, like acid against my pale skin. The world suddenly feels dreamlike, as if the mind of a solipsist had conceived a mythological world of synaesthetic sensations and feelings. The burn of the rain created before my eyes created vivid crimson and magenta, and the dripping of that torrent onto the seemingly-concrete floor creates invisible pins and needles down my spine and across my back. The drops hit the floor in time with the pins stabbing my spinal nerves, and the intensity of the burning parallels the vivacity of the colours before my eyes. The damp macadam seems painted with ire, and soon my fists clench uncontrollably. I can see her once-absent face engraved in that irate concrete, but her eyes are empty and black. There are bruises on her face, also black like the eternal night, and a liquid the colour of ivory begins to drip from a vacant hole in her delicate neck. Almost as if those angelic rains had beckoned her spirit into my cognizant dream, her beatific expression stirs a quixotic sensation in my chest—pathetically romantic, the conscious and unconscious ports that make up the mind combat for the same anchorage, instilling failed hope like stormy waters into my soul. I watch my love, but she is not much alive—she is dying. Dying helplessly, and all I can do is watch. The crimson and magenta becomes more poignant, and the fire begins to penetrate my skin and travel deeper to my core. Out of nowhere I am surrounded by delicate vases, Chinese in appearance and elusively glowing along the walls. A weapon for my ever-growing anger, I grab at the vases and throw them towards the damp macadam, and the crashing sound feels melancholic and jaded—synaesthesia has now blurred all sensations together. My love, crying desperately within the walls, feels painful, so to combat the pain I continue throwing vases, relishing in the sound of fragility rupturing into destruction, beauty shattering into shards of lifelessness. 

But now, it is not only her face I see… it is her whole body. And the synaesthesia has ended, for now all sensations have stopped entirely. She is hanging there, her neck graceful and frail under the twine rope, pendent to the ceiling, her legs two feet from the floor. The ivory fluid that dripped from that neck has vanished, and now the world is merely black and white. Comprehension suddenly overwhelms me: someone did this to her. I see him, whoever the f**k he was, picking up her stunningly pure body, cataleptic from the blows, and hanging her from the rope that he himself fashioned with hands calm and serene. Although her mind is at ease, I see her body instinctively struggle for survival, her mouth gasping for air. It takes too long. She fights subconsciously, only wanting life. He gets tired of waiting. He pulls the knife. He draws it across her throat. A gurgling sound ensues, and the milky white liquid that stained the rope now flows down her pallid dress. Her body gives up.

And she is back where she was, absent from life. This memory, this life, this beautiful life stolen so violently, fills me with hatred. She died of asphyxiation, secondary to blood collecting in the lungs from a severed jugular and trachea. We found her in the apartment basement. I can see the sea of grey chairs again, under that canopy that segments the metaphysical from the material. The chairs are all empty. No one is standing by the coffin but a lone priest, seeming impatient and eager to part. He speaks no words. Then I am alone, and the deacon’s footprints in the soft earth are all that remain. I am so, so sorry for your terrible loss. Let us know if we can do anything for you. More alone than ever. It’s painful, like the stinging of the rain, like the fire of hatred, like the sound of delicacy stumbling into a brick wall. I wave my hand over the coffin, feeling the wet pine. And may the almighty God protect her forever, in the gracious light of heaven, so that her tormented soul may finally rest in peace. Yeah right. I lift the cover of the coffin, and see my reflection, ashen and lifeless before me. We understand you loved her. But she is gone. You must understand. Angel of darkness, death, come for me. I am ready.

The canopy tears in a sudden, violent wind. I close my eyes and see her face one last time, feel the wind one last time. Take this. It will make you forget. Forget everything. And just be. I know. I know. I know.

Make it stop. Just make it stop. The pain. The pain just won’t stop. All I need is one last breath, one final gasp of immaculate air so that her beauty becomes the last thing I envision, the very epitome of my being. And my world finally, miraculously, falls victim to the razored sabre wielded by the angel of darkness.

 

It was an overdose. There was nothing we could do for him. We kept him on a respirator for as long as we could, but there is no more life inside him—we can see brain activity, like he is dreaming… but he won’t wake up. We had to pull the plug.

We are sorry for your terrible loss. 

Reviews

[Debbie_Philly]

What an amazing write.... very intriguing ... you took me right into your world and i was aborbed by the story!!