The Fall of Achilles

What is death? 

I don’t mean biologically. Of course, we all know what it means to be biologically dead. I mean, philosophically. What is death? The cessation of the experience that makes us who we are? By that standard, I’m still not dead. 

Maybe death is the final end. When we fulfill our life’s purpose, or not. Maybe death is the last chance we get to try. 

Either way, I couldn’t tell you that for sure, even though I am dead. 

My name is Achilles, and don’t worry, I’m not the fabled Greek hero. Though I suppose we’re alike in that we both had it all and lost it all.

 I think my parents expected a lot from me, giving me this name. But I don’t think I managed to achieve that much of it. I’m just a guy, and a small guy, to be honest. Sort of dark, gangly, a little too hairy -- someone you wouldn’t look back at. That’s how I got by most of my life. You see, both of my parents left me when I was pretty young. Dad was here for the making, not the raising, and Mom left when most of us kids were old enough to fend for ourselves. We lost our house pretty quickly after that–I’m pretty sure a tornado hit us. I don’t have many memories of that time. But, after that, it was just my siblings and I for a while. I don’t even know how many of us there are, if I’m being honest. There were so many of us, I lost count. We’d play around as children, but before I knew it, we’d all separated. I don’t even know where most of them are today. I don’t think too much about my childhood, and really, if you ask me, I can’t say I look back on it with unhappiness. They were hard times, but, I’ve seen better and worse. 

Anyway, after we parted ways, I’d survive by scavenging off of people’s leftovers. What they threw out, I’d eat. I know it sounds unappealing, but that was my lifestyle. Dignity isn’t a word I was well acquainted with at the time.

But sometimes, I’d hunt and kill quarry myself. I’d weave my own trap, and set it just right. That was a real treat, every time. Nothing like the taste of meat you’ve caught yourself.

 But most of the time, I’d spend my days exploring the city, looking for places I could hide out and scavenge for food. That was until I met a girl. Her name was Aranea.

She had short, shiny black hair, and deep dark eyes. She was gorgeous, with legs for days. I saw her while exploring the city gardens one day. We hit it off almost immediately. Her smile captured me, and she would talk about the most wonderful things. She’d been all over the world and had tasted things I couldn’t dream about. She’d been on her share of adventures, too. 

One day, while we were out stargazing in the gardens, I asked her a question.

“What do you think happens when we die?”

She turned and faced me, the grass brushing her face. After a moment of silence, she spoke. “I guess, that’s probably it? I mean, from everything we know, I don’t think there is an ‘after.’”

“Doesn’t that scare you?” 

“Scare me? Far from it,” she laughed. “I live to dance on the line between life and death. Standing on the precipice of your existence really puts things in perspective. Well, at least for me–it makes me want to do something, to be someone.” 

This was something I didn’t understand about her. As long as I'd lived, I’d been afraid of death. When I was a kid, I used to have nightmares about dying. I’d dream that I was running as fast as I could and that this giant was chasing me. Then, a huge–if you can believe it–slipper would crash down on me, and I’d be dead. I guess I’d always felt like I was so insignificant, that even a mundane object would be enough for me to meet my end. Of course, everyone’s scared of death, and I know that. And I got what Aranea meant, too–death could make you want to be somebody in life. But, what if I tried my best, and it still wasn’t enough? What if, after death, everything I did still didn’t matter?

So of course, I stuck to minding my own business, using my days idly. As things got more serious with Aranea, though, I began to feel like I wasn’t good enough for her. I needed to at least be able to give her a stable home. I set out on a job hunt, and after many dead ends, took up a job as a pest exterminator. It wasn’t anything fancy, but I could do it. I was good at finding and trapping roaches and mosquitoes, and the job kept me off the streets and my belly filled. As soon as I was able, I built a home near the gardens for Aranea and me. Everything about the home was built from my very hands, from the bright white walls to the dome-shaped roof. I proposed to her soon after, and she said yes.

We led a happy life together. Though we didn’t have much, we got by just fine and appreciated the little things. We built a family together, with a pack of our little ones. I’d always wanted to take her somewhere she hadn’t been, on a trip with just the two of us, but we couldn’t make it happen. That was one of the things I regret the most in life -- I couldn’t give her the glamor that she had left for me. But she always told me that my love and the love of our children was enough for her. I hope that it was true -- I can’t wait to see her again. 

Our days blurred into one another, with me at the exterminator job most of the day and her taking care of the children. I always came back to my beautiful girl and the amazing life we had built together. It finally felt like I had done something -- I was somebody now But one day, everything changed. I came home late that night -- I’d been working overtime for several weeks. I had wanted to finally take her on that trip for our anniversary, and I was scraping together the money to do it. It was storming heavily that day; I returned home soaked and longing for a warm bed. I found a huge sinkhole filled with water where our home used to be. The house was torn apart, and pieces of it were floating all over the wreckage. The house that I had built with my own two hands wasn’t strong enough to withstand the storm. I hadn’t even gotten this one thing right. I yelled for Aranea and the kids, but no one responded. Then, to my horror and shock, I saw their dead bodies floating in the water. I tried to swim and reach them, but the damaged pieces of the house were too much to get through. 

That’s not the memory I want to have of us I want to take with me now, though. I want to remember my daughter, Octavia’s third birthday. I want to remember the way she smiled in Aranea’s arms as I fed her a piece of chocolate cake. I want to remember her laughter as her brother chased her with icing on his fingers. And most of all, I want to remember Aranea standing under a tree with me, smiling at the two of them.

My life took a downward trajectory after that. I began showing up to work at odd hours, not caring so much anymore. I was eventually fired, and once again filled my days with nothing. I slept on the streets most nights. The nightmares about death were back, too. Sometimes I’d dream about Aranea and our children. Those nights, I’d go back to the place where our home was -- they had cleaned up the mess and planted some trees there instead. 

I contemplated death a lot in those days. Somehow, I began seeing it as a friend, and not an enemy. I wasn’t scared anymore -- what was there to be afraid of? I hadn’t done anything in life, so there was nothing for me to lose. All that I could have lost had already been taken from me. 

At some point, I decided that things needed to change. I had to get back on my feet again. Aranea wouldn’t have wanted me to waste my life away. The first thing I needed was a job. I went back to my old employer and explained my situation to him. He was sympathetic enough and gave me my old job back. I decided that I also had to fix my living situation. However, I didn’t have enough money to buy or build a house of my own. That was when I decided to room with someone.

The house was huge -- I didn’t even have the chance to explore most of it. In fact, I only occupied a small corner of it; my roommate took up most of the space. I don’t remember his name, if I’m being honest. Though we didn’t talk much, he seemed to hate my guts. He was a big guy though, and much stronger than me, so I didn’t want to antagonize him. Our conversations were limited to me greeting him when I got home and him either ignoring me or shooting a disgusted look my way. Sometimes I’d accidentally touch his things, and he would freak out, but we mostly didn’t get in one another’s way. Once again, I survived by being unostentatious. 

One day, I got home from work in a happier mood than usual. It was my payday, and I’d just eaten a big dinner. I had had a few drinks, too. 

“Hey, roomie!” I greeted him as soon as I arrived. 

He ignored me like usual. 

Something in me snapped. I was done with being the insignificant little guy. I wanted to talk to him, man-to-man. I decided to showcase some of my newfound heroism and stand on top of his precious stack of books. 

“You listen here. I am your roommate, and I will be treated with respect! Stop ignoring me, you giant!” 

He turned towards me. His face turned livid, and he began yelling. “I’ve been tolerating you for weeks, you disgusting pest! I was trying to avoid being cruel, but you haven’t left me any choice.” 

He jumped off of his bed, and grabbed a club from under it. I distinctly remember, the club was pink -- an odd choice, in retrospect. I had been bravely standing my ground before this, but now I was paralyzed with fear. I began running as fast as I could.

“Oh I’ll get you this time, you vermin!” He stood up, and raised the club. Before I knew it, I was dead. 

So that brings us here, to me, and to death. I can’t tell you where I am -- I don’t really know. I’ve just been feeling like a voice in space, with no sense of my body or my surroundings. But at least I can talk to you, here, as I think about all that was in my lie and all that wasn’t. 

I guess it could’ve been worse. Anyway, it doesn’t matter now. I’ll see them all again soon.

The boy flung up his pink flip-flop, and brought it down. He hadn’t wanted to kill the poor guy, but he was just getting too annoying, climbing his books and sleeping behind his desk. The boy had even begun to worry that it would bite him in his sleep. 

“Dad,” he yelled out of his door. “I just killed the spider that’s been living in my room! Could you help me pick it up?”