Thirty Seconds
This short story is based on an
Edward Hopper painting called "Summertime"
He can no longer contain himself. The problem must be resolved today for he
cannot cope with the pain any longer. Morphine helps, but he cannot handle the injections
twice a day. He had spoken to Bernadette two weeks ago about the problem.
She laughed it off and called him a crazy old man. Today WILL be different.
Today his granddaughter WILL listen. He falters on weak legs. Every step he
takes is as heavy as lead. His face, marked by ill health, portrays a grey man
who once had everything in life. By the time he reaches the hallway he is
breathless, and leans against the doorframe.
"Bernie, where are you?" His voice is frail.
"I'm on the steps. Outside."
"Are you smoking?" He says at the door.
She kills the cigarette in an instant. He is silent, but he smells it.
"No, Phil."
"Come inside, there's a breeze."
"It's lovely outside. It's summer."
The hallway is dark with a large portrait painting of her mother. The painting
stands on an oak easel.
"My only granddaughter and you hardly say a word to me. We pass each
other by. Is that a good thing?"
"You know that's not true. I love you with all my heart and soul, but we
have to be realistic here. I'm twenty-four and you are seventy-eight. I
need a life too."
"I am not seventy-eight. I am seventy-seven, two hundred and fifty four
days, six hours, seven minutes and twenty seconds. You don't have to look after
me, you know."
"If I don't, who will?"
"You can put me into an old age home."
She turns and moves into the house, "I'll never do that."
She draws him forward, kisses him on his forehead.
"Careful, now, I'm tired and cold."
"I have just the thing for you. It's called bed. You know what the
doctor said. Not to exert yourself."
His face turns serious; nods his nose towards the chair, "Sit, please. I
want to ask a favour."
Stirred by the sudden change of mood, she sits down and clasps her hands on her
lap.
"I haven't long before the old ticker gives in. I want you to consider
something. I've been putting this off for a long time. We spoke about this two weeks ago and you thought I was just a cranky old
man. The pain is worse. I cannot eat. I cannot smell. I
cannot feel. The bones in my legs are fragile. I need your help."
"You know I'll do anything to make you comfortable, but I won't take the
law into my own hands, Grandaddy."
"This is not a favour I would ask of just anybody, you must understand
that. It's not the kind of thing people discuss over dinner. Know this: I
am to die anyway. All I want is for you to help me die, with dignity."
A lump settles in her throat. She is speechless.
"I'm serious about this," he continues, "you need not answer
directly. I'm asking you to save me, not condemn me to live out the
rest of my days in absolute pain. I've had a life that"s
full. I brought up your mother and she gave me you before she died, bless her
soul. A head on collision killed her. At least her death was quick and
final. Mine, well, I watch myself die everyday and I am helpless to fight
it."
"No!" She said. "You cannot ask me to do this."
"I have the chemicals and the equipment, I just need someone to
administer. I'll do the rest."
"What is this? Are you crazy asking me to murder you? You think I enjoy
watching you deteriorate every day, don't you? Last year you were a
healthy, bouncy guy who loved life. Look at you. Have you seen
yourself?"
She stood up and helped him to the mirror. "Look. Skin
and bone. A face that's almost skeleton
on a body that's frail. Compared to other guys your age, you're not looking
after yourself. If you take care of the body, the mind will do the rest.
You know that, you've been around long enough."
"I haven't got the strength," he said slowly.
"That's because you're not living a positive, conscious-free
existence. You've had your days of worry; now it's time to let it go and
save yourself. I can't do it for you. No one can. You need to
find a point to begin again."
"Don't you see? I have found that point. Death."
XXX XXX
She comes out to smoke, leans against the pillar at the bottom of the stark
concrete steps and stares across the street. A white dress clings to her body.
She puffs several times on her cigarette. He made it sound so easy.
No one would know.
His plan was simple: she will inject him with sodium thiopental - an anesthetic, this will put him to sleep. Next flows pavulon or pancuronium bromide,
either of which paralyzes the entire muscle system and will stop him from breathing.
Finally, a dose of potassium chloride will stop his heart.
He'll be unconscious when he succumbs. He won't feel a thing.
What will she tell the police?
They will want to know how he died. He said to say, one minute he was
alive, the next minute he was dead. A heart attack.
That's how they like it.
Short and sweet.
Thirty seconds.
The street is deserted and the buildings detached; colourless dead bricks. She
casts a lonely figure as if she is the last person on earth, but a pram appears
from around the corner and a nun dressed in a black habit and veil pushes the
pram from behind.
She drops her cigarette and mumbles, "What is becoming of us?"
Louis
Harris
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|
Name |
Comment |
Date |
|
James Tobias |
The old quandary? I stumbled over
a couple of areas. |
2008-02-17 |
|
Ron Smerczak |
Ja, The Big Question!
Have worn the T-shirt several times myself when having a hypo. Or rather when
I've come round afterwards. I would love you to make this story into a poem.
Makes you think. Or makes you drink! - last comment from Cess. Points 3 - Very promising piece of writing |
2008-02-23 |