A painful escape

The pain, like the violent rush of molten lava winding down a hillside, was almost too much to bear. He sat up in bed, pressing his clenched fist to his chest. The tips of his fingers, with their long and neglected nails, bit into the skin of his hand, the fist knotted so tightly not even a grain of sand could have escaped. A burning, oppressive poker relentlessly prodded his heart, penetrating deeper and deeper into the struggling chambers; the merciless onslaught made him gasp.

He coughed, hoping it would chase the searing prongs from his chest, but there was no relief to be had. Plucking nervously at the collar of his pajamas, his fingers dancing across the starched fabric – he was not to be persuaded that starching his pajamas was unnecessary, his beloved Marjorie would turn in her grave if she knew he was neglecting the standard of care she had established for him – he pulled at the collar to allow more air into his screaming lungs and then swung his numbed and heavy legs over the edge of the bed.

For a moment, as he stood abruptly, the room span and danced, darkness descending, the ancient armoire in the corner of the room vanishing from his vision – the one he and Marjorie had purchased from Louie’s Antiques all those years ago, and lovingly restored almost to its original shine and splendor – and he had to sit down again. When the armoire once again reappeared in his field of vision, undulating like a distant object in a desert before his eyes, he took a deep breath and tried again.

Firm tendrils of choking pain slowly encircled his heart, as if to squeeze the last few shaking heartbeats out of him, hurrying the inevitable, and he winced. This would be the day, then. He was ready. But not here, not now.

His clothes were folded neatly in a pile on the white chest of drawers – Marjorie would have been proud – and he put them on with effort, a cold sweat pouring from his face and soaking his undershirt before he’d finished pulling his pants on. His grunts and groans, emitting from deep within him, despite his efforts to be quiet, reverberated around the room, bouncing from peeling furniture to peeling furniture.

He could hear footsteps in the corridor outside, and he expected The Old Hag, that frightful and vile woman who always gleefully jabbed him with her syringes whenever she had a chance, to burst in to his room at any moment asking why he was being so loud. But today luck seemed to be on his side. Having buttoned up his starched shirt, he opened the door and stuck his head out. There was no real point in trying to be surreptitious about this.

The toothless grin of “Him next door” greeted him as he turned his head to the right. For a short moment he felt faint, even though “Him next door” always waited outside his room to greet him. Today, he had somehow forgotten to expect him and the sudden appearance of the face, so weathered and browned that it could easily have been mistaken for a leather saddle, had startled him clean out of his skin. He felt a sudden surge of irritation and it was with difficulty that he avoided pushing the old man out of the way. Instead, he just stepped around him into the corridor, and scurried towards the exit.

It was agony. Every step sent a new wave of hell through his heart. But he was determined. He knew exactly where he wanted to be.

The sun was sneaking through the glass-adorned outer doors, calling him to her. The long rays of dazzling light seemed to be drawing him closer to the front doors, pulling on him, urging him to join the brighter, more vibrant outside world. 

He heard The Old Hag’s footsteps before he saw her. He knew this was it. He wasn’t going to make it out the doors and off to his sacred place. She would see him, and she would stop him with one foul mouthful. She had that kind of commanding presence. None of the orderlies dared oppose her. He braced himself for the impact, misery building inside him like the crest of a wave.

Then, as if by a miracle, he heard “Him next door”. The man was wailing, banging something against the wall, and emitting the foulest curses the old man had ever heard. The Old Hag’s footsteps rounded the corner, and turned in the opposite direction. He couldn’t believe it. He had to turn around. He had to see.

Sitting against the wall, banging his head repeatedly, his arms flailing in front of him making it impossible for The Old Hag to grab him, was “Him next door”.  As the old man stared incredulously, “Him next door” stopped banging his head briefly, turned his head, and looked at the old man. A quick smile, a nod- barely perceptible - in the old man’s direction, and he suddenly knew. “Him next door” was not as demented and gone as he had always thought.

With the renewed wailing from “Him next door” and the shouted orders of The Old Hag reverberating in the corridor, he turned on his heels and quickened his steps towards the bright outside. He felt invigorated, suddenly. He knew he would make it. To think otherwise would be ridiculous.

He reached the doors and, summoning some of his last strength, pushed them open, his arms shaking under the weight, feeling the faint voices of those who had already past greeting him as he stepped outside. He was suddenly enveloped in calm, warm whispers of encouragement fueling his muscles once more.

He could see it, sitting there in the sunlight. His final resting place, beckoning to him, shimmering and dancing in the warmth of the day. He smiled. He felt the stirring of another presence beside him, and he looked down in expectation. Marjorie was standing next to him, looking up at him, a warm smile making her face glow, tears welling in her eyes. She held out a hand. He seized it gratefully, feeling yet another sharp stab at his heart. He smiled back at her. Soon, Marjorie. Soon. He was biting his lips, trying to block out the pain with more pain. But first, let me get to our favorite spot. I want to sit with you there, in the brilliant sunshine. She nodded.

Together, they slowly made their way to the bench. His footsteps were labored, falling hard on the ground, but hers could not be heard. He stumbled a couple of times, almost falling to the ground, and she waited patiently while he righted himself.  Finally, he reached his bench, smelling the slightly rotten smells of the damp earth around, and the sour smells of the orchids planted in the flowerbed behind the bench. He had always disliked those orchids, beautiful though they were. They smelled bad. Today, they gave him a foreboding that he could not ignore. But it was a foreboding he welcomed. He would finally be free, no more pain, no more medication, no more Old Hag.

Letting go of Marjorie’s feather-light hand for a moment, he put his hands out to steady himself against the back of the bench and sat down, grunting loudly in pain. Marjorie stood there, quietly smiling, her eyes encouraging him. He looked up at her, and motioned for her to sit down next to him. She did so, effortlessly. He put his hand out again, and she put hers in his, his fingers encircling it easily. She had always had such small, dainty hands.

He sighed contentedly. He had made it. He was ready. He gave her a small peck on the cheek.

“Remember “Him next door” Marjorie?” he whispered. She nodded and shook her head smiling.

“Well, he is not as demented as we thought. He helped me escape. I wasn’t expecting that, I tell you what.” He coughed, wincing in pain.

Feeling Marjorie’s head resting lightly against his shoulder he drew one last painful breath, and closed his eyes. He could feel the final agonizing heartbeats, bringing a cold sweat to his face, and making his toes curl. But this was a welcome pain. It wouldn’t last long. There would be no syringes, no paddles, no doctors screaming orders at nurses. With a smile on his face, he allowed the end to come and he departed this world, his beloved Marjorie by his side.

Across the park, an orderly witnessed the old man’s departure, sighing happily and nodding to himself. He had seen the man step outside the horrid nursing home, watched him hold out his hand to someone the orderly could not see, and make his way down the steps to the path. The old man had struggled, but seemed somehow to draw power from his outstretched hand, which, even from the distance that the orderly observed this struggle, so clearly held on to another hand, albeit invisible.

He watched the old man as he sat down, and again held his hand out for the comforting hand that had made this journey possible. The old man was obviously in excruciating pain, yet there was a calm over his face that warmed the orderly’s heart. He witnessed the last shaking breath leave the old man, and saw the peace spread from his contented face throughout his whole body. 

The orderly stood there for a while, watching the peaceful couple on the bench, one of whom he could see, the other he could only sense. There was a beauty in the scene that brought tears to his eyes. This poor soul would no longer suffer in this horrible place. No longer would he be treated badly, no longer would he be humiliated and disrespected.

It was going to be a beautiful day.