FINALITY.
Rating M
A UFO Story
By LtCdr
©August 2010
The usual disclaimers apply
One afternoon
The man walked across the tarmac to his car. Shimmering heat miraged the black surface, and sweat made his shirt cling uncomfortably to his back. Jacket flung over one shoulder he reached into his pocket for the car key.
One minute later the bomb went off.
That evening
Straker stood at the end of the bed, arms folded, cream suit pristine, hair immaculately groomed, not a crease marring the perfection of his appearance. Except for a slight frown that furrowed his brow as he watched the man lying before him.
Not that you might recognise the patient in the bed as a man. Simply a blackened, burned ruin. Burned and blistered, unrecognisable to any of his friends, the man was unconscious. He had been unconscious since they had dragged him from the wreck of his car.
That was the good part. But the only good part.
Straker was silent as he listened to the doctors clustered around the bed. They ignored him, as he had expected. Their minds focussed on their patient, on trying to save his life, whatever life was left. Straker wondered how much of a life it would be, if the man recovered. To have lost both legs, to have such burns that the only hope for anything resembling a normal existence would be intensive plastic surgery.
Even that was no promise of normality. Straker had seen burn victims like this before, their faces a stretched mask of distorted, swollen skin, eyelids and noses like plasticene creations cobbled together by a child. And he, himself would not want to live like that, helpless, probably blinded, dependant on others.
No. The man in the bed would hate that. In a perverse way he hoped that the doctors would simply let the man die, would switch off the machines, and the monitors, would go away and leave him here, standing at the foot of the bed, watching as the man quietly, peacefully, breathed one last breath and then...... it would be painless, he knew that.
He concentrated on the hushed voices. The murmured whispers carefully spoken outside the hearing range of the man in the bed. There seemed little point in trying to preserve this life now, this shattered ruined life. And Straker, for one brief moment, thought about what he would do, after the man died. Would he still be able to carry on, working here, trying to protect the world? Would he have the strength to do what was necessary? To stay here, alone.
He was not a religious man, but Edward Straker prayed, to whoever might be listening, that the man in the bed might be allowed to die, not because anyone wanted him to die, but because life for the man would be intolerable should he actually survive. And Straker did not want that.
Even if it meant being alone, Straker could not bear the thought of the man waking to find his life shattered beyond any hope of repair, with no future, no value, no worth to anyone, just a burden on those around him.
So Edward Straker stood. And watched. Silently. His arms folded, unmoving, unflinching as the doctors performed their tests and treatment. His eyes remained focussed on the still body, on the chest as it moved, gasped, struggled to breathe.
And he willed the man to stop fighting, to finally give up the battle to live.
The hours went by. Straker remained. It was as if he had nothing else to do, nowhere else to be. He stood at the end of the bed, still ignored, still focussed entirely on the shell of the man in the bed.
People came, offered condolences, said platitudes, left in tears. He ignored them. When the man in the bed writhed in pain Straker flinched very slightly, but did not turn away, even when they removed the dressings and the full horror was displayed.
Stoic, unfeeling, dispassionate. Edward Straker waited for the man to die. Waited, hoping, praying for death to free the man.
And then, despite all attempts, despite the efforts of the doctors, despite everything, there was a final gasp, a final struggle to keep the ties that bound the man to this world, but it was too late.
It was almost an anticlimax, the death. A simple, almost silent last breath out, the chest fell and did not rise again. The body assumed that repose that is the unmistakeable stillness of death. Never to be confused with mere unconsciousness or sleep.
Death. The last long sleep. A release.
Edward Straker bowed his head in respect to the man in the bed. He unfolded his arms, looked around the room one last time, and in silence, left.
His work was done.
LtCdr
August 2010
Author's Notes;
Hmmm. Don't really know what inspired me to write this Just had this vision of Straker standing at the end of a bed looking down. And it all went from there. I was probably feeling stressed at the time!!
I just wrote it all in one go, and made very few alterations. The concelt is that Straker was the one in the car and is actually looking down at himself. there are some clues.. the immaculate clothes, the silence, the fact that no-one speaks to him or notices him. As if he isn't there.
He wonders if he could go on if the man died... as a ghost, still haunting the corridors .. I cvan see him doing that!
But his work is done. And he bows his head and leaves in silence. I liked that last bit.
Oh come on....... It's me... I specialise in dark and -ridden stories!
You should know by now! (snigger!)