This is the End of...

Work in progress.

            I am being wheeled into a large room that contains a long table made of mahogany. The wood is very dark and shines from its surface to its carved, curvy posts. There are open, glaring windows on the right side of the room as I enter from the left. There are pictures of vases with roses that look like cartoon tulips in drowned out water colors. On the far side, there is a large rectangular landscape piece, framed in ornate wrought iron. The beach stretches out, slowly getting smaller in the middle with a sunrise or sunset on the left and what looks like dunes and condos on the right. It is wrong, very wrong.

            My brother whose name is Charles leads me into the first space at the table where the chair is missing, and then the rest of them begin to file in. I twist around to look before my brother fixes the problem. I relax in my chair, my thin lips stuck together, mashing against the lipstick. I realize it must be old. I can hardly pull my mouth open to speak.

            “That’s fine, that’s fine,” I say in a wave of my hand to Charles who is leaning in to ask if I want something, need something, am I comfortable, is the glare too bright, is the room temperature okay, do you like this spot, would you like another spot, do you want to be on the other side. All of these I cannot answer at the moment and I clasp my hands together, trying not to dig my nails of my left hand into my right’s palm.

First, my sister Olivia, and then my son follows with his wife, and I expect to see my grandson after them, which is why I frown when another person enters and it is not him, but my sister’s husband, Frank. My personal friend and accountant holds the door for them all, nodding and smiling. Good fellow, my accountant.

             The door shuts. A gentle turn brings me back to face the eyes of the sun bearing down on me. “The other side, Charles, I want to go to the other side,” I say but it is much too quiet for him to hear. My throat is aggravated. He is talking to my accountant and they are nodding, and smiling.

            They begin after awhile. “Quickly now, before we start,” my accountant friend starts with a handsome grin, “Are you still going away this summer?” First they have necessary conversations.

“I am cold, and the sun is too bright, Charles.” My throat pinches and I wince.

He ignores me in favor of his business. He says I have very little time for this meeting. I silently agree. I would much rather be at home, where it is cool but not frigid, and where all my windows are covered. My retinas are burning, Charles. He smiles and nods, a bit of anxious laughter as he hurries them on. My son looks affable. His wife looks eager. My sister looks annoyed. Her husband smiles and nods. My accountant is flipping through papers.

I have to clear my throat but the sound will be atrocious and everyone in the room stops their conversation and looks at me. Something tickles inside of my esophagus. Then, I have to cough, and then I have to hack. My throat Is engulfed in explosive tiny shards of glass, splintering me all the way up to my tongue as my mouth will not close now, just gasps for air to my lungs, that feel the opposite of hollow. They must be filled with coal.

My brother Charles pushes off the wheels of his comfortable leather chair to come closer and assist. Everyone shows concern in their brows, and nods to one another. They keep to their chairs and get so very still. They call that sympathy but it looks like pity to me.

I am given water and I smile tight-lipped but I know I can talk now if I want to.

After a half hour of quiet questions and the nurse being called, and me waving my hand and shaking my head, the utter aggravation has seated itself permanently in my throat and every word I speak is like playing the last round of Scrabble. There are so many letters I have left, and I just need a triple letter score to really win. 

They start talking again, and I really have nothing to say now. I am burrowing into my coat and the knitted throw on my lap keeps my hands warm. I have to keep my eyes closed because they will sting from the sunlight, and I would tell them all of this but it is better that I do not interrupt. I swallow and swallow, but the flames smolder the lining of my vocal chords and sink into my windpipe. The revolting tickle is back. I force the coughs to stay inside as they knock at my tonsils. I start to shiver. They are talking about my house. I feel how a bird feels in the winter, and I suddenly understand migration. My bones are all filled with icy air, freezing me from the outside in.

For a moment there is silence and I must open my eyes to look. Blinking, I see the face of my sister shrinking inward. The last time I saw that face was when I told her that I had sold the cabin to some strangers who didn’t even know Daddy.

“Yes, that’s true…but…” My son pauses and looks at his wife. She looks at him and then to the windows.  I shut my eyes again. “Our family is just starting and if it’s all right with Grandma, we would like the house, you know…for our son and we are planning to have another.”

There is a sigh and a tap of a pen, and more silence, and I am turning blue. I should talk now again. Tension only makes the cold worse. Finally, my sister’s husband speaks up. What about the beachhouse (where my brother Charles is hiding his poker ring games on Saturday nights)? Charles looks horrified and I feel bad for my accountant friend who doesn’t like people knowing about my assets. I like him for that. He controls all my finances beautifully.

Yes, they could possibly take that with an exchange of money. Well how much? How much is fair? What do you think? On and on, they go and I’m just betting on the winner.

I’m not listening anymore. The blackness in my head like disappearing ink, writing out their voices in words that go as quickly as they come, and I mumble out a parting gift for all of them to hear, “Writing my will in disappearing ink.” But it is all just funny to them.

            One car ride I don’t remember and I’m back in my bed, laid out like a turkey. I can’t move anything and yet my neck still jiggles. I need water, Charles. I need a bath, Charles. I fear as I look around and my eyes aren’t quite adjusted that I have moved on to a tomb with no light, and the shadows of lamps and dressers are the hellacious creatures venturing towards their new victim.

            Then I see clearly the roses carved into the knobs of the drawers and the reflection of the bed in the mirror on my bureau. My easel is in the corner and my brushes stick up from their tin can. I am in my bed, I can feel the softness, and the warmth. I relax my molecules and stop rolling my eyes, hiding behind my eyelids.

            There is a noise and some light but I don’t want to open to see. I’ll go back to sleep, Charles. Go away, Charles. No Charles, no pillow, Charles. There is a voice coming up the hall and I’ve finally got my eyes open, but the shadows are all gone, and its just a blanket of dark night. I am hostage to it and I cannot breathe. Charles! Charles! Charles! Charles! Charles! Charles! Charles! I can’t breathe! Let me breathe! My head won’t move and my feet only twitch and my fingertips are still limp against my thighs. Why are you doing this? I don’t to die! Charles! Breath! BREATH!

            The voice is there as I grip everything inside holding onto the last air I can in my coal lungs. “Quickly now, quickly.” I am strangled and it is all Charles’ fault. I am dying and no one will help. There is a last burning in my throat, a tickling that explodes, and it bursts in my brain, and the agony suffocates any hope. I lamely rest in my warm bed, trying to breath but nothing gets past my threat, a golf ball made of spikes sticking into my flesh, and I can taste the blood on my tongue. My eyes roll as I hazily see the shadow lift and two figures there.

            “Her eyes are moving.”

            “Yes.”

            “Now we have to dump her.”

            “No, Charles. It’s fine.”

            “WHAT DO YOU MEAN ‘IT’S FINE’?”

            A rocket goes off in my ears. One figure falls. The other looms close and I feel his breath on my wet eyes. I need that air. The reaper’s rattle grips my chest and I can hear the sound choked out in my broken throat. I fight to the end with twitching, all seeing eyes. I know it is you! I must see. I must speak, my lips move. Charles?! Charles?! The gaussian blur lifts at last. The solitary molecule in my brain pushed to its limit. Finally, there is death’s handsome grin.