"Just Before Dying" - a short story

"Just Before Dying" by Philip Letts

A Short Story

Part 1

Shit oh shit. Shit. Damn that hurt. Where the fuck did that car come from? I never even saw it and I’m normally so careful crossing the road. Look left, look right, look left again and I never fail to do it, not once since my pedantic father taught me it way back when. So how did I miss this one? Shit.

God, they say that when it happens to you it happens so fast, so fast you never even see it coming. They’re right. Where did that car come from? And I looked both left and right as usual. I know I did, I never fail to. Never. Well it sure looks banged up now. Where is the ambulance, in fact, where is anyone? You kind of expect that if something like this does one day happen at least people will come out of nowhere to help you. Right? Not me, shit, no one at all. No one.

I can’t seem to move my legs. In fact, I cannot move anything. Maybe I’m just dreaming. No, no such luck. Shit. They also say that when something like this happens you panic, you freak out and scream or cry or have some kind of grotesque panic attack. Well they’re wrong about that, I have never been calmer. And me calm? Shit.

God the sidewalk looks different when it’s inches from your nose. It is somehow cleaner and dirtier all at the same time. I mean it looks cleaner in general, whiter than I expected I guess, and yet that dog shit looks, well, awful. Oh and that must be its pee. Great. I suppose they generally do both at the same time. And it smells too. How weird, I seem to be able to see and smell but I can’t speak or scream or freak out. They never said anything about this. Shit.

And I still can’t move anything, not a thing. That’s weird too. Well I guess someone will come along, followed by an ambulance and finally I’ll be taken off to some hospital where they’ll fix me up and whisk me back home soon after. That would be good. I miss home. Shit, that’s weird too. I never miss home, never. And I used to feel so bad about it, like I had some nomadic guilt complex about being immature or irresponsible or whatever. Mind you I’m always feeling guilty about something or other. My mother made sure of that. Its kind of like Catholic guilt I guess except for the fact that we’re Jewish. I wish we were Catholic, I’m sure it would be a lot easier and people would hassle me less. It’s tough being Jewish. They didn’t say much about that either. Mind you, it’s tougher being born from my lot.

Fuck, when did it start? I guess it was since I got back from college. They never got over the disappointment from my academic years and my kiss ass sister made sure to make it perpetually worse for me. God I hate her, but not as much as they hate me. And I’m fucked if I’ll ever really understand why. I guess his nervous breakdown didn’t help and then there was the thing with her heart. Shit, I remember pacing up and down in that Hospital like it was yesterday, waiting for news, stealing glimpses of her in that emergency room with a million tubes sticking out of her and that constant look of demented fear in her eyes. Shit. And once we knew that she was kind of OK he disappeared. He just upped and off’d. I mean who does a thing like that? I guess someone who had a breakdown. Shit.

And of course my sister had to go marry the ass from hell, full of airs and graces and paranoid delusions. Which is why I haven’t seen her in forever. I mean come on, who can blame me for that? I guess I was always the black sheep and that would be fine if they weren’t so goddamned white. Mind you, the older I get the more I realize that they are not so white and pure and sassy, they are just as fucked up as anyone else, maybe more. John always used to say there’s nothing so queer as folk. God he was right. And he didn’t mean gay!

Shit school was fun, the guys, the sports, even the place. I often think about it. They say that those are your best years and I guess to an extent they’re right. If I still lived nearby I’m sure I would go visit the place all the time, kind of reliving it, trying to find something. Christ I wish I knew what? Maybe I should have seen a psychiatrist. Mind you I did once, Anna sent me. She kept telling me how I would come out feeling lighter and happier and full of hope and energy. That never quite happened though I did feel better.

I liked Anna, she was fun, that year or so we had together. Great sex. Shame she was all messed up, but who can blame her really, her father dying so young and a mother like that. She was always looking for something too. Maybe that’s why we got on so well. Mind you when she got into those black moods, fuck, it was each man for himself. And she had a few men, shit, and a woman too. She told me she was just experimenting. Right. I said it was fine but I could never quite get the vision of the two of them out of my head and they weren’t sexy thoughts they were rank. I wonder why? I mean its not like the idea of two women is usually a turn off, but it was with her. Shit. I knew she slept with other men, I just knew it. The slut.

I should have got married really, not with her but with one of the others. I guess I liked Tessa the most. Man she was short and she had the smallest breasts. I can’t count the amount of times that she pushed me away and then one night completely out of the blue she agreed to meet me in her apartment, in her bed. I arrived way after midnight and the lights were off in her room and there she was lying in bed with nothing on waiting for me. Shit. I still can’t believe I left so early in the morning. She pretended to be asleep. No wonder she never forgave me. But she did say that I had the biggest heart. I guess she’s right and perhaps that’s why I am so sensitive and so passionate. I am sensitive, too sensitive. Shit. Maybe I should have been an artist all along. Shit, or an actor. Shit.

I hate my job. I always hated it. It was all about making money and proving my fucked up father wrong and being this great advertising person like everyone always said I should. Fuck I hate it and I’m not even that good at it. Shit. I should have been an artist. Think how different things would be. Maybe I wouldn’t have the money but I would be happy. I would probably live in the countryside in some miniature cottage or ranch, or on an island in the Caribbean. Yeah, that sounds better, that’s what I would do. Shit, hanging out in some cool wooden place overlooking some white, sandy beach. I would paint or write or take photographs all day and then walk the beach with my dog in the evening and hope that I would run into some stunning blonde chick and take her back to my place for dinner and then have great sex. Shit I should have done that. I should have left the city, I never liked it that much and I guess the acid test was that I never knew what to do with myself at the weekend. I would just wander around streets and shops and Starbucks. The treat would be a few drinks at the bar for lunch or something. I never had any hobbies, I never went to any matches or galleries or even the movies. Actually that’s not true I do go to the movies quite a lot, but more and more on my own. Mind you everyone else is married with kids so who has the time to go to the movies with me, eh? Except that I did start going to the movies on my own before they started getting married. Shit.

I guess I am quite a loner. I always thought I was an extrovert, a people’s person, but I guess I’m not really. I guess I am a loner after all, like my dad. Shit.

I should have gone to that Caribbean island after all and become an artist and not waited. Now I’m well into my forties and it’s too late. Time slips by so fast. I should have got married. Mind you if I had got married I would never get to go to the islands, I would have to work even harder and make ever more cash to pay for a wife and kids and cars and homes. Oh shit and then there’s their education as well. I’m glad I didn’t get married after all. Maybe I should do the Caribbean thing. Who says it’s too late to start over? Look at Carnegie, he started making money when he was damned old, or at least I think it was him, anyway, I can still do it, I’m sure I can.



Part 2


“Oh shit, quick get help, he must have been hit by that car. Shit, quick.”
“Are you dialing Henry? Call the police and ambulance, quick.”
“I don’t think he can hear us. His eyes are open but they look glazed over.”
“Shit, what do we do?”
“I don’t know. Should we move him?”
“No, they say never to move people after an accident. So long as he is breathing we should just stay with him until the police or an ambulance arrive.”
“We should keep him warm right?”
“Yep, this coat should do the job.”
“Be careful.”
“Sure.”
“How’s it going Henry, are they coming?”
“Yep, they’re coming. They said to keep him warm, check he’s breathing OK and sit with him until they arrive. They’ll be here in about ten minutes.”
“Christ, that long?”
“That’s what they said.”
“He doesn’t look good. I wish they would hurry up.”
“Yeah but I don’t see any blood, at least that.”
“Who knows?”
“What about the other guy, the one in the car?”
“They’re helping him.”
“He doesn’t look so good either.”
“Don’t worry about him, they can look after him.”
“I wonder who this guy is? He looks so young and well to do. I bet he’s a banker or something. At least he’s not wearing a wedding ring.”
“That doesn’t mean a thing nowadays. He could still have a wife and kids. Shit.”
“God I hope not, he doesn’t look at all well. I am no doctor, but I can tell you this guy doesn’t look like he should. I wish they would hurry up.”
“He’s still breathing right?”
“Right.”



Part 3


It’s weird knowing that your parents hate you, really weird. And hell, it took me so long. I mean I only really figured it out a few years ago. It was when he started staring at me that way, so much hatred and resentment and anger. And all because he is such a fuck up and had his nervous breakdown thing. Like it had anything to do with me. And I never asked for anything. Its not like I don’t give them things. Mind you, nothing is ever enough for her. I remember that psychiatrist (Christ, what was she called?) saying that some people are just born to folk they should never have been born to and that the chemistry is all wrong and always will be. That’s what happened to me and she said that I should just accept it and move on, move on and live as far away from them as possible. Maybe that’s why I always liked New Zealand. That would be far enough.

Maybe I should have moved there? It is an island after all, it has great vistas and I could be whosoever I want there. No one would know me or expect anything of me. I really could be whoever I want to be. I could be an artist or an actor or well, anything. Shit I can’t really think of anything else, mind you, I have always liked the movies. I mean I could sit and watch movies all day and all night. I could even do that for a living. Maybe I should be a movie critic. No, then I would have to spend too much time inside in the dark and I wouldn’t like that. I’m kind of an outside person. Perhaps I should try and make movies? Yeah, with what, I don’t even have a video camera. I did once and I must say I had quite a good eye. Maybe I should be a photographer. God only knows how you make money out of that. Aren’t photographs all free off the Internet these days? I could be a painter? That’s hard as well and I was never that good in the first place. Yeah, but I never tried the abstract stuff and I bet I would be better at that. I remember going to the Pompidou Centre in Paris forever ago and looking at a blank screen some artist was showing off as the next big thing. Man it made me so angry. I get that kind of stuff more now. Maybe I could do variations on that? Yeah right. I guess I’ll stay in advertising for a while longer. Maybe I could be an ad exec in New Zealand? Now there’s an idea.

Shit I guess I haven’t really been happy for a long time. I just wish I knew how to be content. I used to be. Mind you that was a long, long time ago at college and only really for a year or so. Maybe it was that chick I was with then? Na. Maybe it was the place? Not really. I guess it was my mates. Maybe I miss my mates. Maybe that’s what this is all about. Perhaps the loner in me is actually making me miserable. Maybe I need more people in my life. Na.

Perhaps I need a family? Na. Maybe I should try and get on with my parents again? The Ten Commandments say that I should honor my parents, I think. Yeah, but how do you honor people that hate your guts? I guess you give them money. Shit, how messed up is that.

Maybe that psychiatrist was right. Maybe I should get as far away from them as possible and move to New Zealand and start all over. But then I wouldn’t have the friends bit, or the job, or at least not to start with, nor money. I need the money, I really do. Having money kind of makes everything else OK. Shit, shit, shit, maybe it doesn’t. Shit. So what’s it all about?

My parents always said that life is really hard. But not this hard, I mean come on! Perhaps I should have left home young, then traveled the world, become a famous golf professional, made bucket loads of cash and had endless amounts of girlfriends. Then I wouldn’t be asking any of these questions. Damn, that’s it! Instead I spent all of my life playing it safe making money as an ad guy so that I would be OK later in life. No risks. But I’m miserable and who knows if I’ll be here to enjoy the money I’ve made. Maybe I’ll get paralyzed from this damned accident and then all I will have is my memories, my fuck awful memories. Shit, I should have become a golfing pro. Shit.

“Oh Christ I think he’s stopped breathing.”
“No, no, really? Shit, check quick.”
“I can’t find a pulse and his eyes are closed. They were open. Shit.”
“What do we do?”
“I don’t know.”
“Oh thank God, here comes the ambulance. Thank God.”
“Stand aside sir, stand aside mam, we’ll take it from here.”
“Oh, thank goodness you’re here. He seems to have lost consciousness.”
“What’s going on?”
“Stand aside folk, please, this is an emergency!”
“Oh God, that poor man, what are they doing?”
“I think they are trying to revive him. I guess its CPR.”
“Oh God, I hope he’ll be OK.”
“I have never seen anything like this.”
“Nor me.”
“Shit, this is terrifying.”
“Oh God, they’ve stopped. Why have they stopped?”
“Oh no.”
“Oh Christ.”
“Go ask them Henry.”
“They said to leave them alone.”
“Yeah but they’ve stopped now. Please.”
“In a minute.”
“No, go now, they’ll be OK with it.”
“OK, OK!”
“Thank God.”
“Excuse me sir, is he all right?”
“I’m afraid not sir, he just passed away, there was nothing we could do for him. I’m sorry.”
“Poor thing. I wonder who he was?”


THE END

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