Lonely death

Warning (includes death)

I’m lying on my deathbed. The nurse informed me seconds ago. My family isn’t huddled around me, tears soaking their faces. My family isn’t here. They left this earth years ago. You know the saying: your life flashes before your eyes when you're about to die? I always thought it only happened when death was sudden, but my life flashes before my eyes in a way I never expected. It’s like I’m rolling back a tape, to my very first memory, I was three then. I waddle about the room. My parents are out of the house; they left me home alone. I climb onto the counter awkwardly, I’m not yet tall enough. I hit everything onto the floor. Glass shatters, plastic snaps. There I stand above it all, a grin on my face. After that I was never left alone.

My memories fast forward as if I only need to see the most important ones. I’m older now. I’m curled up in my father's lap; his hand strokes my hair. My mother rocks on her rocking chair. I can hear the soft creak of each swing.

“She looks so cute when she is asleep,” my mother croons.

I’m not asleep, but I don’t open my eyes to prove her wrong.

“I feel badly about not being around her as much as I would like, but we need the money our jobs provide,” my father replies.

“Do you think she will grow up to hate us, because we were always out of the house?”

“I hope not. I can’t bear to think she could,”

Tears slip through my closed eyes.

“I love you! I really do!” I think, but don’t say a word.

The memory ends and my teenage years zip past. It’s a blur of friends, laughter, and tears, until it slows on a memory I knew I’d never forget. I’m eighteen, and sitting in my parents house. I’m studying for an upcoming test when my phone rings. It is a call from the hospital, they tell me that my parents have died in a car accident. I hear their voices but the words don’t make sense.

“How could this happen?” I wonder. “How could both my parents be taken away in a single day.”

I sob through the funeral. People offer their condolences, but they mean nothing to me.

“I’m sorry you have to go through this and so young too,” offered one of them.

“Stupid!” I thought. “So what if I am young? What matters now is that my parents are gone and they are never coming back.”

My memory zips forward once more. It leads to brighter, happier times. I’m 37 and married to a wonderful man named Zach. I’m sitting next to him on a bench. His hand slips into mine, and he leans against me.

“I love you,” he whispers.

“And I you.”

Slowly he pulls away and his face turns sad, but determined.

“Is everything all right?” I ask.

“Yes, but there is something I have to tell you… I don’t want to have kids, ever.”

“Why not?” I cry as I stand up.

“Look I’m sorry! I just don’t want to take care of them and spend so much money.”

He stands up and places his hand on my shoulder.

“Zach! I-I don’t know what to say.” I shrug his hand off, and turn away from him.

We walked home without saying another word. The house was quieter than ever before, and there was a tension that had yet to be broken. The memories zoomed forward again. Only two days had passed since my fight with Zach and tensions were just as high. Zach was out of the house working. I had just arrived back from my work and was preparing food. As I set the dishes out on the table my phone rang. There was a call from the hospital. Zach had died in a car accident.

“Why world? Why do you hate me!” I scream, tears streaming down my cheeks. “As if it wasn’t enough to lose my parents to a car, you had to take him too.”

I didn’t cry through the funeral, instead I held back tears as each person came up to me and offered their condolences. The next thirty years passed. I did nothing but eat, work and sleep, until finally I retired, and moved to a nursing home. There was nothing exciting besides from the rare bingo night which I never participated in. So I laid in bed all day, and even though Zach’s death was years ago it still haunted me like it had happened yesterday. The staff and other residents learned not to talk to me, but one little boy never gave up. Day after day he would return to the nursing home and knock on my door. He came in and sat by the side of my bed and looked at me with innocent eyes.

“Why are you sad?” He would ask.

“That’s none of your business.” I would mutter.

One day I decided to ask him why he kept coming back.

“Because you need someone to care for you and show you kindness,” he replied.

“And why do you think you need to be the one to do that?”

“Who else if not for me?”

And so each day I slowly unraveled, until one day I decided to tell him everything. In exchange he told me all about his life. His name was Simon, and he lived across the street. The owner of the nursing home enjoyed having him around, they said that he had an uplifting effect on all the residents. After that our relationship grew until one day Simon came to me with a crestfallen face.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

“I’m moving all the way to Idaho. I won’t be able to visit you anymore.”

After that I never saw him again. My health drastically declined and so did my spirits, until one day I became sick and was brought to the hospital. I am now laying down on the bed I am to die in, slowly I close my eyes, and drift off to another world.