In my time of dying

I’ve been afraid of dying my whole life. Not just the normal trepidation that most people feel, but downright terror that has cast a shadow over any happiness that I might otherwise have found.

I’m not even sure what part of death terrified me. I guess I was a little afraid that it might hurt, I certainly didn’t fancy the indignity of helplessly soiling myself and lying there in my own filth with my mouth gaping while people stood around and tried to look sad while covering their noses to block out the smell. And the whole … unknown-ness of it. The knowledge that there is always that one thing that you can’t experience or know what to expect until it’s your turn. The fear of that experience was always uppermost in my mind. Would my soul float off to serenely join those who have gone before? Was I to be reborn in accordance with the way I had conducted my life? Or is death nothing but a vast blackness, the last sleep from which I will never awaken? And will I still be conscious? Aware of what is happening to me for the eternity that follows?

I turned 40 nearly a year ago. At least, I think it’s been that long. Time has lost all meaning. I remember thinking … 40! Another decade closer to dying. Might I expect another ten years? Another twenty? More? Less? It didn’t matter. I was drawing inexorably closer to the edge of a black cliff, with no idea where the edge was or when I might fall over it.

I prayed to God to not let me die, and searched in vain for a sign that my prayers had been heard. I sent a tentative prayer in the other direction with the same result. Or so I thought. Maybe a dark force beyond my ken guided my footsteps from that point on.

I researched the concept of life eternal, but the Church’s idea of life eternal and mine were quite different. The whole point was that I didn’t want to have to die in order to achieve immortality.

So I went deeper. And darker. I haunted dimly lit bookstores, breathing in and sneezing out decades of old book dust. I reached out to practitioners of the Dark Arts and followed trails and leads, ironically with little regard for my own safety. I was obsessed with the idea, the certainty, that there must be a way if only I tried hard enough.

And then I found Him. I listened to his promises without question. I had tried so hard for so long to reach my goal that it didn’t occur to me that I wouldn’t eventually fulfil my wish. In my arrogance, I never imagined deceit, I never looked for the catch. I didn’t read the fine print, figuratively speaking. I forgot that behind His pleasing exterior, Satan was the Master of deceit, the Lord of lies.

His name was Stan, he didn’t offer a last name but I guess it wasn’t important. He was around my age, quite similar to me in appearance and manner, and I felt immediately at ease with him. Trusted him. He welcomed me into his modest, comfortable home and we shared the best part of a bottle of fine whiskey in his parlour beside an open fire which crackled and roared hypnotically while I poured my heart out to him. I described my fears, my misery, my fervent desire to live forever, to never die. He listened to my woes with charming focus, and encouraged me to talk until I had purged my body of all emotion, leaving behind an empty vessel that waited to be filled with hope.

When I had finally run out of words, he leaned forward and spoke the words I had waited so long to hear. He looked me in the eye and promised he could do it, I could live forever.

He spoke to me until the fire died and the sun rose. I don’t remember exactly what was said, what transpired, but it was immensely comforting. I cried tears of deep gratitude, and pledged my love for Him, and promised my loyalty and devotion to Him until the end of time.

I found myself at home with no memory of getting there. His last words throbbed in my head. His instructions didn’t even seem that strange, they just seemed … inevitable. “Go home. Try to kill yourself.” I didn’t question his instruction, just pondered options and methods.

I took a carving knife from the drawer, plunged it deep into my breast, then pulled it out. My shirt now had a two inch slit, but the skin beneath was untouched. I felt a brief pang of regret for my ruined shirt, then was overcome with the miracle of what had just happened. Laughing hysterically, I plunged the knife into myself over and over again until the front of my shirt was in tatters, then I sank to the floor and wept like a child. The waves of happiness were overwhelming, almost too much to bear.

I pulled my sleeve up and tried to carve through my wrist, but the sharp blade glided harmlessly over my skin. I filled the bathtub to the brim with warm water, and sank below the surface. I lay on the bottom of the tub with no need to breathe, until the water cooled and I became bored.

The months that followed were indescribably, incredibly amazing. Beyond words. I threw myself with abandon into the party scene, an indulgence I had denied myself for so many years. I drank with no regard for my wellbeing or health and snorted coke until I felt I could fly. Took risks that had young men half my age gaping in wonder and admiration.

My newfound bravado attracted friends like moths to a flame. I was the one with the crazy ideas, the one everyone followed in pursuit of dangerous fun. I was bullet proof, untouchable. Until I wasn’t.

I should have insisted on driving that night, but I had inspired others to take risks. To have their own bragging rights, to tell stories in which they were the hero, the super villain. A leader rather than a mere participant.

Brandi (probably not her real name) wanted to drive that night. We were flying high, invincible! I found myself wedged between Brandi and a busty young blonde. Sharon? Stacy? Something beginning with S, I think. I will never know for certain, and it might just drive me insane. Sooner, rather than later, with any luck.

The night ended in a scream of metal as Brandi’s car tore through the guard rail, bounced down the rocky cliff face, and plunged into the ocean, sinking quickly and deeply under the waves before settling on the ocean floor.

Both girls were dead before we hit the water, their faces bloodied and frozen in horror. They float on either side of me now, their rotting flesh being picked over by fish and other creatures, their skeletons scoured by the ebb and flow of the sea.

I came through without a scratch, my legs trapped painlessly in the metal wreckage. And here I will remain until the end of the time.

Sometimes, I hear the sound of laughter rolling through my head. It sounds a lot like Stan.