This was inspired by the song 'Case of the Stubborns' by a thrash metal band called Viking. They were inspired by an episode of The Twilight Zone. I don't think any of these three pieces bare much other relation to each other. About 4,500 words.
…
Today I am more awake; more conscious. I suppose, in a fashion, I am more alive. However, I could not be much less alive. I am a mind. A consciousness. A soul trapped in a cell. My body is useless, it has been for years; countless years. I can hardly move and each decrepit creak agonises my frail flesh and bones. Even the mind is useless, though in use. It fades in and out of consciousness. Phases of alertness, of activity, as my doctor notices. He is here today and, today, I hear him speak:
“Hello, Tim. Another day and you remain the same as before. No signs of further deterioration, no signs of improvement. There is nothing to tell you and, if you don’t mind me being so blunt, I couldn’t be sure of the in the value of telling you even if I could. I mean, at your age we have to concede that getting better is unlikely. Age is your ailment, after all. And if you got worse – again, I apologise for being so forthright, but you know it to be true – the final piece of deterioration would finally lead to death. Besides that, the recognition in your eyes is so vague and infrequent that it is difficult to tell whether you comprehend or retain the fragments of information we tell you.”
He hesitates.
“Tim, you are an incredible anomaly of human existence. You are, according to our records, 350 years old, 351 in a few weeks. You arrived here approximately 270 years ago and we have been keeping you alive ever since. We have watched you mentally and physically decline over the years but you have never given up the ghost, so to speak. You have refused to pass on. You are the most stubborn specimen of a human being we have ever witnessed. Of course, it is not our place to force you to your ultimate destination. As doctors and professionals in the care services, we are to facilitate your journey on as pleasantly as possible but it is not within our capacity to make that journey for you; not without your consent. We have sought your thoughts in the past. We have tried to understand if you wanted us to help move you on but, by the time we started making the inquiries, your state of being had so decayed that it was impossible to accurately determine a coherently consistent view. And now we monitor you and know you are still here and we wait for you to…well…not be here. We measure your heartbeat, we see the movement in your eyes – uncertain if they register, let alone retain what they see – and we continue to offer our service. It’s up to you to leave this place, not us.”
With this, I see him smile submissively, go to touch me on the hand to console and then pull back, no doubt worried about the shock his touch could stimulate. And I acknowledge that he is right in what he says. I am conscious and here today but how many times has he been here and I have not? How many times have I phased into consciousness to see him by my bedside and been unable to comprehend his words and actions? Or how many times the reverse? To be aware of his arrival but then lose the capacity to understand his words, before phasing out of his presence completely into a blankness, to have my mind return to this room and to conscious thinking with him gone? He is right, I am stubborn. Why can I not move on? Why can I not die?
…
I am in the room, again. I never forget the room. I sometimes leave it to darkness, I sometimes lose awareness of where I am but I always return to this room and recall this room. I recall very little of anything else, of everything that precedes this present room; this present life – if it can be so called. I do not recall my childhood apart from the rare, limited glimpse. I do not recall my developmental years – teenage to young adult – apart from one important event. And in truth, I now remember only one significant event from later on that precedes being here. I have been in this room since around the age of 80; the last event that strikes me is one in my late 30s. That is easily 40 years of notable existence that eludes me and almost 40 years the other way, with a few exceptions. Perhaps I remember so little of the time before arriving here because I was, in some sense, already dead, killed by one of those haunting experiences, never to be forgotten. Regardless, it worries me how much I can forget and still carry on existing. It also worries me what I still remember. I fear I may never forget these events. And as I suffer by being bound to this existence, I also suffer by being bound to the guilty recollections of this mind. In every way, I wish that I was not so stubborn. Not so stubborn as to continue. Not so stubborn as to remember. I wish for the day when the blankness of non-consciousness is permanent. I wish for the day when this room and this guilt are gone.
…
I am in the room, again.
…
I am so sorry. I… People…as shadows. Where am I? Shadows. Shades.
…
I am in the room, again. A bit more lucid this time. I have been out for a while. Sometimes I know that my awareness has been poor. I am not sure how long I have not really ‘been in this room’, more inside myself and oblivious to everything. I like those periods of vagueness. I like to think it suggests a progress to moving on, to not returning to this room, even though I always return.
The doctor is back. I am not altogether here. I look at him looking at me, talking to me but I don’t hear him. There is another doctor with him. I must not look at her. I must close my eyes. (The body won’t listen). Don’t look at her. (The eyes will do as they choose). My eyes move from him, they look at the other doctor. The woman doctor. She looks like her. I knew she would but even knowing this my body cannot handle the shock. I feel my body move, it flinches. A noise seeps into the ears, a bleeping of some machine, the body moves more, the machine bleeps faster. It quickens.
…
I am in the room, again. Alone. There are bandages around my chest. Something must have happened in the hours, days or however long past. I can’t recall much of anything. I never can. The room is empty. A closed and curtained window. Only the artificial light illuminates the room. The walls are the epitome of bland, a beige-tan. Then there is my bed and the machines next to me. With me, these are the essence of my room, the constants. Vague apparitions come and go, doctors and nurses and others as passable and temporary as my own thoughts, but these limited furnishings always remain. Even when I go, I remain.
…
I am more conscious today. More coherent, more lucid. I hope someone comes. Those are the worst days – when you return and are alone with your thoughts. How many times have I had the opportunity to not be alone with my thoughts only to be totally lost in unconsciousness? I don’t know to care. But when I am clearest of mind and alone, I very much do know to care. With the ability to think little and remember less, it is an unpleasing experience. I do not like to experience consciousness alone. Especially when the littlest you can remember, you wish to forget. I cannot control my thoughts any more than I can control my actions: I will recall those memories. The ones that pain me. The ones that bind me to existence.
It’s strange – or perhaps appropriate is more truthful – that the two memories are undeniably linked, though they occur many years apart and affect me in completely different ways. In fact, the more fondly I remember the first event, the more painful the emotions it inflicts upon me and the more brutal is the second recollection. The happiness of that memory of her – of us being together – is made all the more bitter by the memory of her departure. The memories of how we met have faded, as have the days of courtship. The only knowledge I confidently have of the times preceding our honeymoon are the feelings of elation that continued in the time together. Although past memories have gone, I recall she was my only lover. She was the only woman that has ever truly mattered to me; who still matters to me. The specifics of the honeymoon I can recall with less haziness than the other fragments that dance in my mind but it is the fragmented moments that matter so much. The lurching contentment in my stomach that verges on nausea, for the emotions are so many, so real and so strong. The lying in bed and looking in her eyes any number of times over that time together, and the feeling of gratitude. Whether we had just made love or just woken up, there was nothing but undiluted happiness in the knowing that she was there. It was such a perfect time. I wish I could sigh with the satisfaction that these moments brought me at the time. However, I cannot. It’s all I can do to keep my breathing going. It is controlled by the physical and unconscious process; it occurs detached from the thoughts I experience. Besides, that comfort is a lie; that sigh could only be a sigh of longing and futility. A sigh for a love so clearly necessary, so clearly lost.
I don’t want to recall the other memory. I do not want to think on. Perhaps the unconsciousness will fade in and awareness will fade away. Perhaps someone will come in and rescue me from myself. No? Perhaps I can delay.
Why is it that that memory is so apparent? So readily recalled? Why is it that this other memory equally remains? In isolation I could sit here lost in perfection with that first recollection; instead I am miserable. There are other memories, facts that I acknowledge in between the two properly retained episodes. I know a son, Mark, was born. I know I worked and she worked. I know in this time I started smoking. I know, too, that we remained exceptionally in love. The decision for a second honeymoon, I know, was because of our work stresses. We were not healing rifts but removing barriers that stopped us being happy together. Everything began so perfectly, that is what makes it all so tortuous. Why doesn’t someone come? Why doesn’t someone save me from myself?
I remember us arriving at our destination, the ‘plane landing. We were so happy then. I remember her smile before we got off the plane, a smile with which she told me that this was exactly what we needed. Our return to our honeymoon hotel room. Her jovial mocking at the cheesiness of the idea. How clichéd it all was when actually followed through. And I remember lying on the bed, in each other’s arms and feeling that, however sentimental or trite the scenario might be described, how right it was.
I remember the evening. The long white dress she wore; her light brown hair in curls. She looked perfect. I remember her teasing me for smoking. I know that she wanted me to stop – the teasing had a genuine message – but she was not rushing me, not nagging me. I considered stopping by the end of the holiday. For her, I could do that. And then I remember the morning, still so perfect but the impending inevitability of the situation means that it is already tainted. The sensations of dread choke this serene memory like encroaching weeds. I remember the cool warmth of the early morning and the lazy way we made love. And I remember her entering the bathroom as I went out for a smoke. An unnecessary trip away from her. I remember her calling through the door, in a teasing plea over the running water: “Don’t be long.”
I wasn’t long, perhaps twenty minutes. If I had been quicker…If I had not gone at all… I remember opening the door and calling her name. I remember the only answer being the still-running water of the shower. I don’t want to remember anymore. Not a moment further. It’s already too far. My body is crying. I can feel the tears; I know why. I remember opening the bathroom door. Why do I remember looking at her on the floor? Why do I remember her body so sprawled? So undignified? Why do I remember her eyes closed? Why can I recall the darker blotches of red where the water had not mixed with the blood? Why do I remember the faded pinkish stream going down the plug-hole? Her hair darkened and straightened by the water? Why do I remember my own uselessness? My own loss? I remember this and nothing more. I don’t remember healing. I don’t remember returning to life. I do not remember adjusting. Her face did not fade. I cannot remember getting past that dead, broken body – that beautiful face, those lips slightly open; the back of her head, too, slightly open. I cannot remember getting past her life fading. I cannot remember because I never got past her life fading. I still cannot get past that vision. I cannot ever imagine getting past that vision. I will not forget and I will always blame myself. If I had been there. If I had stayed with her. If I hadn’t let her die.
I’m so sorry, Claire.
It still hurts so much. The feeling that I let her down. That I let her die. And now I cannot recall anything else. I recall faces and some places but these are the thoughts that have branded themselves upon me. A branding that will never heal. An impossible moment to pass. I remember the doctor’s face. I remember my son’s – though he must be long dead. I wish I could join him. And her. Why must I remain in this room? Nothing here but the torture of my thoughts and the futility of the facts of my doctors. That I am in some sort of biological stasis. On the brink of death but, somehow, remaining. Stuck in this room. Stuck in this body. Just my desperate sorrow, my inability to escape and these mocking machines bleeping in recognition of my entrapped existence.
…
I am in the room. The nurses float around me. I can’t hear anything. I can’t move; my body does not even wish to twist my neck. I am sure that the nurses and the machines must be making noise but I can’t hear them. It is like I am dreaming of a silent movie.
…
He’s talking at me. What is the doctor saying?
“…really. So, we’re going to continue with the dosage and the treatment. Maintain speed to our destination.”
Seems to be the same old doctor spiel. He moves out of my view. I hear a chair scrape, he must be sitting down.
“You know, we did think about moving you. To another room, I mean. A change of scenery and all that. In the end, concerns were raised that the shock might be too much. Some of us saw that as a pretty fine problem solver in itself. But it’s really not for us to decide, it’s for you.”
The chair gives a hollow scrape once again. The footsteps clop out of the room. I feel so tired.
…
Room…Walls. Wheeze. Where?
…
I’m still in my room. I can’t concentrate. Shadows. Silhouettes. People?
…
Maybe I’m fading. It all seems so dark. No. The memories keep me here. Here, in the dark.
…
I’m in my room, still. I feel I have been away for a long time. It happens, but I never go completely. My neck turns to look away from the machines and window. There is a man on the chair. It is not the doctor. It looks like my son. Mark?
“Hello, Pop.”
It can’t be Mark. He must be dead. It must be one of his children’s children, however many generations past. Should I know this man? Has he been here before? Have I met him before? He does look like Mark.
“Think of me as whoever you like, Pop. You have been here too long. Centuries doesn’t cover it, Pop. It’s too long. We will get you out of here. In whatever fashion. It’s time to move on.”
He seems nice. I hardly remember Mark. I am sure he’d approve of this man; I do. He touches my hand. I let out a groan. Not my body, distinct from me; my body and I as one. It brings a new alertness.
“We’ll have you with us. Slowly. Slowly…”
Take care, Pop.
He gets up and goes, looking at me as he does; comforting and melancholy.
He will help me. I like this man.
…
There’s stirring. Groaning. Noises. The stirring is me. The groaning is also me. Motions before my eyes. I don’t understand…
…
I am in my room. Always in my room. The click of the door. Steps.
“Hello, again, Tim. Same as usual…” The voice begins to muffle and fade.
…
There is motion in the room. They are taking decorations down. They gave me a birthday? I can sense it, they have. That feels like a sick joke. My body groans.
“Ah,” it’s the doctor, “rumbles of life. Well, Tim, the decorations had to come down at some point. 351 years… That is an accomplishment by anyone’s standard. To be in a room, immobile but alive – at least in the most basic sense – is certainly an impressive spectacle. Some think of you as a medical marvel; others, and I’m one of them, see you as a monstrosity. Why won’t you just let go? Why be so stubborn?”
His questions speak a bitter truth. I do indeed want to let go. I need to let go. But I can’t.
…
Who is that? It looks like Mark. It can’t be Mark. It looks so much like Mark but not Mark. Like a memory of Mark. This must be his descendent.
“I’m whoever you’re most comfortable me being, Pop.”
What does that mean?
“Do you remember me?”
Do I remember this person? He looks so familiar. But perhaps I remember Mark’s face and this is all I remember. I remember so little. Perhaps this man is a memory of a memory.
“No, Pop. Do you not remember me being here?”
I stretch my mind. Do I recall? Not really. I recall nothing particular. No events. But perhaps a sensation? Yes, I feel he has been here before. Once before?
“Not once before. I have been here many times. In many ways, I never leave.”
Is he answering my thoughts? Is he talking with me or at me?
“I am with you, Pop. In a fashion, I am always with you. Often I am not but, sometimes I really am here, distinctly here, to call for you.”
He is communicating with me. This is strangely familiar.
“That’s right, Pop. Remember. Don’t resist it.”
What? What is it?
“I have been here before. We have been here before. Remember.”
I am tired.
“I know you are tired but you must do this.”
Help me.
“I am here to help you, Pop. It is time to move on.”
Help me. More.
“I can’t push you. It’s never worked before.”
“Before?”
“I have been here before.”
We have been here before.
That’s right, Pop.
What’s going on?
You’re not in hospital.
I’m not?
That’s right. You have not been here for centuries. Your body is no longer a thing. Your mind is no longer a thing. You are just you.
Like a soul?
Like a soul, Pop.
How long have I been here?
It’s complicated. In a sense, there is no time. In another sense, it has been centuries. Hundreds of years. But that doesn’t really cover it because seconds run like hours in this stasis.
Why?
You are a trapped soul. You have trapped yourself. You have refused to let go.
We have been here before?
Yes.
Who are you?
Who am I?
…Mark. You’re Mark.
That’s right.
Are you trapped?
Not like you. I am a free soul.
Why am I trapped?
Who trapped you, Pop?
I don’t know. I want to be free.
Then let go, Pop. Move on.
Move on from what? Let go of what?
You know what.
What?
What can you remember?
No.
It is not the memories. The memories do not help you.
No.
They remain because of guilt.
No.
The guilt gives you these memories. The guilt gives you pain. The guilt built this room. It has made you sick so you can’t move on.
No.
Yes. You are not a medical marvel or monster. This is all your soul enslaved in guilt. Your imagined physical form. Your mental frailties. Your room, your doctors and nurses – they are all the encasement of your soul. Come. Move on. Be with us.
What is it like?
Again, it’s complicated. It just is.
No.
Yes.
I am imagining this. I am going feverish with the frailty of my age.
We have been here before, Pop. You have denied it before. You are almost free of the guilt but if you let it close up it will build around you again. You will be here for centuries more. Let go, Pop.
You hear that? That denial? That’s not you. That’s the guilt coming back.
If I let go of my guilt, I let go of her. I can’t do that. I owe her. She may never be forgotten.
Please, Pop. She’s a free soul too. We can all be. That is the guilt holding on. That is the stubborn curse of guilt.
No.
Pop, think about it. You deny it but this doesn’t make sense. The room doesn’t change, the doctor doesn’t change.
No.
You go through extreme frailties. The guilt grips you and you never let go. You cling to this and it destroyed your life. It’s still destroying you out of life. This is not what Mum would have wanted.
Why is she not here?
She is outside this room. Are you prepared to listen?...
…
After death, souls must unburden themselves of all their negative feelings. They start trapped but most become free in a matter of weeks, with regards to ‘living time’. It is the transition from the physical to the super-physical. Although you are not remotely physical when you die, your soul take a while to understand its new form; that is, that there is no form; this comprehension from the form to the formless occurs during the unburdening. Some souls take longer to make the transition because they have more negative feelings to shed. Sometimes for ‘years’; sometimes for ‘centuries’. The illusory entrapment can take many forms – you have envisioned yourself in a hospital room. You have imagined yourself sick, which is fair. Sick with guilt. You near the conclusion of this intermediary phase and then often snap back to your original, sick, trapped state, no nearer to freedom than before. My situation is even more complicated than yours. There are spaces in between the transition of trapped and free and I am in such a space. Mum died and became entirely free, she is fully part of the super-physical existence. I am a part of that existence as well but as I shed my negative feelings I became aware of your existence. I became aware of your still being trapped. My guilt remains about not helping you to move on. I am in between here and there. My guilt has tied me to you and I will not be completely free until you let go too. Mum let go. She has made the transition. It is time for us to do the same…
…
Is she there?
In a sense, Pop. But it’s the super-physical. We are all there but none of us are there. There is no you, or me, or mum. There simply is.
I can’t have her? I can’t see her? She can’t forgive me?
Pop, you’re not listening. There is no her to forgive. There will be no you to be forgiven. I am torn between here and there. I can’t go without you. There is nothing to forgive any longer. There is just moving on. And then there will be no more us. Just is.
No.
But Pop…
No. Not without her. Not yet.
Pop.
No.
Pop.
No!
…
“Your fever’s come down.” The doctor’s with me. “We really thought you were going to move on, there. However,” the doctor sighs, “you remain as stubborn as a mule, as they say. Comfortably over the 351 years now, months past. Who knows how long you’ll take before you move on. Things are settling down, you’ll be back to normal in no time. I can only imagine this to be frustrating for you but we can only try to make your stay as pleasant as possible. And we can hope it will be temporary. For all our sakes…”
…
I am in my room. I am held here with my memories of her. I wish I could move on. But I can’t. I loved her and she died. I let her die. And now it seems, I can’t die. I can’t let her go. I can’t let go.
I’m so sorry, Claire.
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