The Day Moon
by Eric J. Krause
Ten stood out on the surface, staring up at the day moon. Thoughts buzzed through his mind, summing up his existence, his ten lifetimes, but out here he had no one to share them with. He'd ignored the advice to bring a voice recorder, but it was too late now to worry about such things.
A flash of movement to his left dragged his attention from the day moon. No doubt another ten out to end it all. A pretty woman, who, like him, wore no life-sustaining suit, walked towards him. He recognized the look of acceptance she wore. He'd seen it in the mirror this morning.
"Hello," he said. "Glad I'm not the only ten choosing this day moon." The words felt thick inside of him, but the radioactive dust hadn't infiltrated his innards yet.
"Oh, I'm a seven, not a ten." She gave him a sheepish grin and looked up to the day moon.
"A seven? Then why are you out here?"
She glanced at him for a split second. "Please. I'm not worth concentrating on."
He nodded. Inside the city she certainly would be, but out here? No, she was right. He turned his face upwards and focused on the day moon. They stood in silence for a few moments until she broke it.
"My five and six ruined everything. We had a good existence going. One, Two, and Four set it all up so the rest of us wouldn't have any worries. Three didn't contribute, but she didn't mess anything up, either." She paused. "I wonder now if she was a warning sign Four should have addressed."
"Why don't you head back in and spin damage control? Make a better life for your three remainders?" His words didn't hurt, but he guessed that was thanks to the day moon. The radioactive dust had made itself at home inside his lungs.
"Believe me, I tried. I slowed the bleeding, but there's no way I can stop it. I'm not even sure Eight can. And even if she does, it leaves nothing for Nine and Ten." Another pause. He wondered if he'd see a tear running down her cheek if he chose to look at her. "They'll thank me for this."
"What did they do?" Ten didn't know how she understood; he stuttered to start, and when he did get the words out, they came in a gravelly squeak.
She sighed. He didn't hear any blockage in her lungs. Maybe the radiation took longer to work on a seven. She went on in a strong voice to describe the underworld and crime dens of New Glory City. He'd have normally found it to be an interesting topic; he'd lived a sheltered existence, one through ten, and knew nothing of the darker side of life, save for what he'd read about in articles on the mind net. A day or two earlier he'd have peppered her with questions, and would have been hanging on her every word.
As it was, though, he paid little to no attention to her story. His entire focus, his entire life, was the day moon. In his reality it grew to overtake the entire sky. As this girl, this seven, talked of robot godfathers and alien con artists, he drifted up to his next existence, the one fabled to never end.
Showing posts with label death. Show all posts
Showing posts with label death. Show all posts
Thursday, September 16, 2010
Thursday, June 17, 2010
#fridayflash--Final Exit
Final Exit
by Eric J. Krause
Conner sat clutching her hand. The heart monitor beeped on, though he knew her strength was waning. The nurses occasionally poked their heads in, but with the status quo flowing on, they had no need to linger. For that he was grateful. They may ask uncomfortable questions as to the nature of his relationship with this woman. He had no answer for that. He didn't even know her name. He was just there to feel her die.
He learned of the phenomena when his grandfather passed. In the summer when Conner moved from elementary school to junior high, Grandpa's heart gave out. The paramedics revived him, but he never left the ICU. Mom kept Conner from the hospital at first, most likely wishing to keep his innocence intact. But he'd been close with Grandpa and begged to see him. On that fateful afternoon, she relented. He sat with his hand in Grandpa's, listening to the beeping machine. Mom had left to grab them a snack, so she hadn't been there when the beeps went erratic and turned to a solid hum. Right before the chaos of nurses and doctors invaded the room, an energy flowed from Grandpa's hand into his own. It moved up his arm and through his body before escaping. It left Conner with a glow of peace he'd never before felt.
He didn't say anything for minutes afterwards. Mom figured it was shock, but that wasn't it. He reveled in the afterglow. He now knew what a glorious drug dying was, and he wanted that feeling again.
All through junior high and most of high school, he experimented with as many drugs as he could get his hands on. Anything from sniffing glue and huffing aerosol cans to alcohol to the heavy stuff--heroine, cocaine, and everything else. Nothing gave him the same feeling as a soul leaving this world through him. He figured this out his senior year when he clutched Grandma's hand as she died. It was the catalyst he needed to clean himself up.
For the next few years he waited for another family member to get sick, to die. No luck, especially since he had only his mom's side, which was a small pool to draw from. His father, whoever that guy was, had lit out all those years ago when Mom informed him she was pregnant.
Then tragedy struck. Halfway through college, a drunk driver struck Mom as she strolled down a sidewalk on her way home from work. She held on to the fragile string of life long enough for him to get to the hospital. He grabbed her hand, and she departed, sending euphoria though his body.
The high lasted only a short time before the reality of the situation came crashing down around him. He couldn't deal with a life without his mother, so he began frequenting hospitals, finding those on the verge of death, and sitting with them. A surprising number of the dying had no friends or family visiting. He learned quickly that if he walked in with purpose and acted as if he belonged, no one would question him. And with hospitals brimming with death, he stayed high almost constantly.
Which brought him to the here and now. Her respirator gargled, and the heart monitor buzzed. Her soul, her energy, made its way through him, firing his synapses with joy. He leaned back and accepted it, sighing contently.
But like with all drugs, his tolerance kicked in. The wonderful high mellowed before the nurses even entered the room. As they fiddled with the woman--he wasn't sure if they were trying to bring her back or simply confirming her passing--he snuck out. They'd never miss him.
His drive home had been a sea of thoughts on how he could prolong the feeling. It wasn't until he arrived that the answer struck him. If other deaths brought him so much joy, what about his own? He ran a hot bath and fetched an Exacto knife from the tool kit. His final exit would be the ultimate high.
--------------------------------
This story was inspired by the writing prompt, "Write about leaving," as well as the song, "Final Exit" by Fear Factory.
by Eric J. Krause
Conner sat clutching her hand. The heart monitor beeped on, though he knew her strength was waning. The nurses occasionally poked their heads in, but with the status quo flowing on, they had no need to linger. For that he was grateful. They may ask uncomfortable questions as to the nature of his relationship with this woman. He had no answer for that. He didn't even know her name. He was just there to feel her die.
He learned of the phenomena when his grandfather passed. In the summer when Conner moved from elementary school to junior high, Grandpa's heart gave out. The paramedics revived him, but he never left the ICU. Mom kept Conner from the hospital at first, most likely wishing to keep his innocence intact. But he'd been close with Grandpa and begged to see him. On that fateful afternoon, she relented. He sat with his hand in Grandpa's, listening to the beeping machine. Mom had left to grab them a snack, so she hadn't been there when the beeps went erratic and turned to a solid hum. Right before the chaos of nurses and doctors invaded the room, an energy flowed from Grandpa's hand into his own. It moved up his arm and through his body before escaping. It left Conner with a glow of peace he'd never before felt.
He didn't say anything for minutes afterwards. Mom figured it was shock, but that wasn't it. He reveled in the afterglow. He now knew what a glorious drug dying was, and he wanted that feeling again.
All through junior high and most of high school, he experimented with as many drugs as he could get his hands on. Anything from sniffing glue and huffing aerosol cans to alcohol to the heavy stuff--heroine, cocaine, and everything else. Nothing gave him the same feeling as a soul leaving this world through him. He figured this out his senior year when he clutched Grandma's hand as she died. It was the catalyst he needed to clean himself up.
For the next few years he waited for another family member to get sick, to die. No luck, especially since he had only his mom's side, which was a small pool to draw from. His father, whoever that guy was, had lit out all those years ago when Mom informed him she was pregnant.
Then tragedy struck. Halfway through college, a drunk driver struck Mom as she strolled down a sidewalk on her way home from work. She held on to the fragile string of life long enough for him to get to the hospital. He grabbed her hand, and she departed, sending euphoria though his body.
The high lasted only a short time before the reality of the situation came crashing down around him. He couldn't deal with a life without his mother, so he began frequenting hospitals, finding those on the verge of death, and sitting with them. A surprising number of the dying had no friends or family visiting. He learned quickly that if he walked in with purpose and acted as if he belonged, no one would question him. And with hospitals brimming with death, he stayed high almost constantly.
Which brought him to the here and now. Her respirator gargled, and the heart monitor buzzed. Her soul, her energy, made its way through him, firing his synapses with joy. He leaned back and accepted it, sighing contently.
But like with all drugs, his tolerance kicked in. The wonderful high mellowed before the nurses even entered the room. As they fiddled with the woman--he wasn't sure if they were trying to bring her back or simply confirming her passing--he snuck out. They'd never miss him.
His drive home had been a sea of thoughts on how he could prolong the feeling. It wasn't until he arrived that the answer struck him. If other deaths brought him so much joy, what about his own? He ran a hot bath and fetched an Exacto knife from the tool kit. His final exit would be the ultimate high.
--------------------------------
This story was inspired by the writing prompt, "Write about leaving," as well as the song, "Final Exit" by Fear Factory.
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