Blues

My death, as I assume is the same for many other ghosts, is not a pleasant subject. Yet, I will still tell you, since you seem so curious. For the 14 years being the prologue to my death, I served as a marine–as you probably guessed it, yes, that is how I died. Though I have no doubt numberless years have passed since then, my memory still bedevils me as a poltergeist does with that day as if it remained the present.

Also, and excuse me for being selfish, but I find it hard to express my thoughts and situation in the presence of nobody but myself. My mouth has been desperately waiting for someone to release this information upon, someone who will genuinely listen. I'll be blunt and tell you that I have been as a hermit is for years and I find it impossible to let you and this opportunity go now that I’m not alone.

For that whole week, it had been raining–God was tormenting me, reflecting my feelings into the water and submerged me in my sorrow. I was doing nothing more than sitting on the edge of the boat and remembering home, wishing that below me was a portal thrusting me back to my life.

I missed my life so much. As much as a flower misses the sunlight during an incessant eclipse. My sons–of whom I had three and who have all grown up and have enlisted in the army as well–I missed. My wife, whom I considered to be my very own soul and direction. My reason, my truth, my sensibility. I miss her voice, but I miss her touch equally, if not more. She made me feel so wanted with a simple kiss; lust yet chastity incarnate.

Her eyes were blue. I was reminded of her, granted, partially, as I was sitting on the edge of the boat, looking out to nothing in particular, and thinking if I fell off, I would join her sooner. Surely death would come before the end of this interminable journey. It was true that I loved my job here, as a marine, hosting a simple living on this boat, more than I valued life itself, yet I cherished her even more than God, or Buddha, or whoever else living on or above Earth, blessing and haunting tortured souls such as I, has loved their children ever before, during, and after me.

These tumultuous thoughts were interrupted by the rush of water I felt abruptly–a push on my back, one of warm hands from one of my crewmates that I could not identify, sending me into that blue I had but a moment earlier been daydreaming about. My fingers and neck were close to falling off. I didn’t try swimming, acquiescing to my fate, but also welcoming it with frozen arms. I had gotten what I wanted, yes, but I had never imagined feeling this unenthused at the thought of death.

When I, at long last and to my despair, woke up, doctors were marching in the halls that I saw little of from my bed. A short while later, one had taken notice that my eyes were now open, and, rushing over, asked me questions and made simple conversation. Did you only just wake up? Yes. Do you know where you are? Of course. A hospital, no? You fell into the water, almost drowning, almost freezing. I know. Does anything hurt? Yes, everywhere, indiscriminately.

I learned that I had been there for two weeks. Two weeks that I had been disabled, basically comatose, and I still had no track of where my wife and children were or how they were doing. I didn’t know if they visited me, if they knew that I was here, if they knew how much I missed them, that all I wanted to do was to bury my face and soul into their arms, hoping they would relieve me from the pain. I couldn’t move. It hurt to move.

But what was worse than not moving was being able to do absolutely nothing, though Heaven had seen me try. That night I woke up, I realized the extent of my hatred for being stuck in one place, solitary, pathetic. Unfortunately for me, the hospital didn’t have razor blades nor ropes that were accessible, and even if I did manage to break free from the chains the doctors call tubes, my chances of finding any would be no better than those of the sun rising in the West. I bit my tongue, but I was too weak. My state, however, didn’t stop me from trying again. When I finally managed to break the muscle, my mouth betrayed me and I just could not stop screaming for the death of me. What did stop me was the security guard seeing me, and immediately gagging me. I was guarded every night from then on. “Suicide watch,” they called it. I hated the name. I hated being labeled as something so negative yet true. This only made it harder for me to try to kill myself.

The guards never feel asleep. Neither did I. My eyes grew red, my tear ducts dry, my body numb, everything useless. I could not do anything myself–before drinking water, I had to call over a nurse who would pour it into my mouth as I lay my head back on the bristled pillow, and even then, she would tell me to swallow since my body did not feel like complying. I had water in my mouth, which I had requested, yet I did not want to drink it. Perhaps this is a bad example of how I remained weakened. Perhaps I didn’t drink it simply because I was scared about all water. I don’t blame myself for that. I don’t even blame my subconscious. I just wish that this inconvenience would go away.

Another week passed. The nurse was injecting me with something I did not care to pay attention to. All I knew was that she had a needle in her fragile hands, that I would be strong enough to easily overpower her when I wanted to. Knowing that, God puppeteered my hands to reach for the needle. This was the first time my mind made a conscious decision, though reckless. When I took it, it immediately penetrated my eyes. At least for now I was free of sight. I did not have to see any more. I was hoping my hearing would go next, somehow. But the guard stopped me again. His biceps were muscular, his grip strong enough to rip my mouth open. I should’ve asked him to do so. To my displeasure, he tore the needle from my hands, and as he did, I could hear the nurse screaming. I felt awful for causing her such fright, but I had to. If I explained to her why, she probably would shake her head, and tell me in her windchime-like voice that suicide was a permanent solution to temporary problems, as she usually did. I chose to ignore her every time.

A week after that incident, I was recovering. My wife had finally written to me, and it seemed as if the thought of her longing for me removed all pain everywhere. The nurse had read the letter to me in a gentle voice. She read it to me every morning and every night, per my request. I am hesitant to provide you with what she wrote since I am greedy about her, however I also wish to show off her dainty words and penmanship. I do not have that letter with me currently–it is sitting peacefully in someplace unknown–but from my memory, the letter read:

My dearest,

I have not heard from you for more than my heart can bear, and I worry. I wish I had known about your condition sooner, else I would have stayed by your side even as you slept. I blame the hospital for such irresponsibility and lateness in their message. But now that I discovered this information, I am arranging travel as I write. Woefully, we’re a sea apart, I won’t reach you until two months have passed; two weeks until the ship departs, and six weeks for the journey. I dream as a child does, praying to God that I could instead have a safe journey on a rowboat. I know I would row faster than any captain had ever dreamed of. I wish you were near so I could share these childish thoughts aloud with someone who listens. 

Charlie got promoted to sergeant. He hopes you are proud of him. The rest has remained mundane.

I pray this letter reaches you before I do so that you could have my words’ company as you wait. I know how much you love me, and I miss that feeling that had become so regular. I yearn for your quick recovery.

With all my love and more,

Camille.

That night, I cried. Catharsis, a feeling that has deserted me ever since I almost drowned, flooded my lungs and eyes alongside a reborn sense of hope. All I had to do was survive for two months, and then I would be able to feel the plains and hills of her face. This was also the first time I had regretted blinding myself, for now the possibility of seeing her moon-like eyes was impossible to obtain. 

When the nurse read the letter to me, every morning and every night, I had become accustomed to the crying. After time and time again, it became a habit. It wasn’t as if I became numb to the action, but more so that I expected and embraced it. Even though I was crying, I knew I was happy.

Some time later (I’m assuming less than two months since I never reunited with my wife), I suddenly stopped feeling–just completely. The coarse sheets, my softened tongue, the static air disappeared somehow. I willed myself to stand but I could not identify the floor from the ceiling. I must’ve been the luckiest person ever, I kept getting what I wanted. My senses were finally granting me my desires; they were gone, absolutely.

I still regret that I could not sense anything, but at a certain point, one accepts that this is how death “feels” like. I still wait for the day my wife finds me in this unknown place I call the Nothingness–a colorless, shapeless place. If I were a sane person, I would have absolutely no reason to believe at all that there is still something surrounding me, yet by some crazy will, I chose to believe that I exist, because my thoughts accompany me. I think my consciousness is still present, else I would not be recalling this story.

I have yet to determine whether that haunts or comforts me.