I am dying.
I knew it because of the thing, walking two steps behind me. Looming over me like a hawk watching his prey.
It started a few days ago, I woke up one morning feeling a presence behind me, at first it was just an indistinct feeling of oppression, and during the week it gradually grew into a dark mass trailing after me. His feet never leaving the ground, dragging along the concrete. I quickly understood what it was, call it an instinct or a premonition, but I knew it was it; my own death or maybe the angel of death itself.
As I was aware of what was coming for me, I felt the need to not be forgotten surge. I felt horrible, wondering what I would leave behind, what people would remember of me. Had I been nice enough, had I been generous enough so that my friends would shed tears for me ?
I made a plan, thought about it long enough, wanting to leave a last good impression. I grew restless, as the dark mass started to catch up with me, I could hear its breathing, low and uncontrolled, it’s presence slowly staining my world a shade darker. So I called my friends, asking to see them, as I usually did, to drink, to have fun.
The first night, I was with Abby, a friend I’d known in high school, we talked, a lot, I asked her how she was, how her family was, children ? Cousins ? I knew basically everything about her, that’s how I was, full of sincerity, of curiosity about my friends, to get to know and understand them better. She answered all of the questions, smiling, her white teeth shining in the dark atmosphere, and then she asked about my brother. She didn’t remember his name she said, I smiled and told her that he was good. I did not have a brother.
The second night I met with Matt, an ex colleague who became the best of my friends, I asked him how he was, he asked me back, I answered that I was alright. I lied, I didn’t know why, was it because I didn’t want to tell him that I was dying ? I knew, yes I knew, this was not the reason. It was because I got used to lying to him, to keep our relationship going. Matt did not care bout me and I was unconsciously aware of it. The truth is, I’ve never told him about any of my hardships, I have always acted as if everything was fine, but I knew his, I knew about his wife affairs, about his parents vacations, his siblings fighting. But he never asked about mine, if I didn’t talk about it myself he would never ask. And I never talked about it.
And the week kept going, meeting upon meeting, that made me open my eyes about what I was leaving behind ; an empty carcass, nothing more. Sunday came and I could feel its breath on my neck, it was not low any more, it was raspy, quick, each one of them raising the hairs on the back of my neck. How was I going to die ? When was I going to die ? As a multitude of questions danced in my head, a heavy feeling sat on my chest.
What did I live for ?
All my life I had tried to please people, never getting angry, always comprehensive, ready to lend an ear. I thought I had friends, not a lot, but good friends, and yet, I did not. People liked me, but who was I ? At this point I did not even know myself. As my own death laid itself on my bed, I found myself wondering what would have happened if I had lived my life differently. Monday morning was the worst, at this point, my back was heavy, I did not even go to work, after all, what was the point, I gave the few bills I had to homeless people, at the very least they would remember me. I think.
I sat down on the street, for a few minutes, a few hours. I could hear it talk now, whispering things that I could not understand, my vision was blurry, I felt lost. The ground moved beside me, someone handed me a bottle of water, “you’ve been sitting here for a few hours” he said, I nodded, he stood up, patted my back, “It’s alright, you did the best you could.”
I was thirty, and yet I bursted out crying, for all of these years of “I am okay”, “I am fine”, of fake laugh, of fake relationships. Yes, I wished I had done more, I wished I had lived as I really wanted, I wished I could’ve find someone I could tell I wasn’t fine.
I have been in the hospital since this morning, people have been coming in and out, some crying, some trying to tell me that everything would be fine. I try to smile at everyone, reassuring them, telling them that everything is okay. I wanted people to remember me, but nevermind, I had never been myself, whatever they will remember will only be specks of me, superficiality I left to be loved, and as our breathes slowly merge into one, and I hear him singing “it is time” I clutch myself to life, and type on my computer.
My family, my friends, state how brave and kind I am, and that I do not deserve this. I thought that was what I wanted. I spent the week worrying about the reminiscences of my person, but the truth is we will all be forgotten. And yet. I found a way, to be remembered, wether people will read it or not, it does not matter. I wanted to leave something behind, so I am leaving myself out here, to be found, to be read. I think that’s a good first and last impression.
Ah. For the first time since it appeared, my death has been silent.