Note: The following scenario actually happened to my brother-in-law,
who lives in AZ. At the time, (being
from up north) he thought he would surely die, and couldn’t believe that nobody
else seemed too concerned.
Dying
If
you prick us do we not bleed? If you tickle us do we not laugh? If you poison
us do we not die? And if you wrong us, shall we not revenge? --Shakespeare, The
Merchant of Venice
"If
you poison us do we not die?" Adam murmured, reasoning with himself
that the poison from not one, but two scorpion stings had to be fatal, no
matter what that so-called doctor had said. It was only a matter of
time.
His
hand was burning like the devil; his arm was numb. He could still feel the
poison traveling through his bloodstream, and since the doctor had left,
his shoulder had begun tingling too. There was nothing else for
him to do but await his death, to anticipate the blackness that
would soon encroach. He could picture it all so clearly: the image of
himself dressed in black, clutching his chest as his heart began to
fail, staggering as his limbs suddenly refused to hold him up, then
falling to the ground, gasping, his lungs struggling to draw one last breath
before finally he would succumb to the inevitable, inescapable sleep of
death.
He
just couldn’t understand why nobody else seemed the least
bit concerned.
“Aw,
Adam it was just an itty-bitty scorpion.” Joe's voice interrupted his mournful
contemplation.
“Itty
bitty?” Adam was appalled at his youngest brother’s lack of sensitivity. Joe
had always been a bit self-centered, and downright surly towards him since he'd
gotten back from school, but this was going way too far, even for
him. Did he mean nothing to the kid? Most likely, Joe was anxiously
anticipating his oldest brother’s death, hoping to get his grubby hands on
Adam’s brand new rifle? Or perhaps the little troublemaker was just looking
forward to having one less person watching him.
“Yeah,
ya didn’t have to squash the poor little thing,” Hoss admonished with a scowl.
“What? The poor little thing?” Adam nearly fell over from
shock. It was almost too much that not even Hoss cared whether he lived or
died. Sure, Hoss had always had a soft spot in his heart for creatures of
all sorts, but Adam had no idea that they meant more to him than his own
brother. Why, oh why hadn’t he just stayed in Boston? There were no scorpions
in Boston.
“That critter was just protectin’ hisself, Adam,” Hoss scolded, waving an
accusing finger at him. “Ya had no call to go stompin’ on him like ya did.”
Adam
stood there, jaw gaping, unable to believe his brother was actually defending
his murderer. “First of all,” he said mostly to Joe, “it wasn’t itty
bitty, it was *huge*.” He would have displayed for them the precise
hugeness of the said 'critter' if he’d had any feeling in his arm and if
his hand hadn’t been burning like hellfire and damnation.
“Well,
that’s actually a good thing, son. Since, apparently, the bigger they are, the
less poisonous…most of the time, anyway.” His father’s rich baritone was
usually calming, but unfortunately this time Adam found no reassurance or
comfort in the voice or the words his father spoke.
“Says
who?” he snapped, attempting to fold his arms across his chest, but only the
left one cooperated.
“Says
the doctor.” Ben gave him a reproachful glance, but Adam figured he didn’t have
much to lose anyway.
“The
doctor? How can that man even call himself a doctor?” He had shown no
compassion; had done absolutely nothing to treat Adam’s wound – nothing but
tell him to put a cold compress on it. “The man is obviously a charlatan; he
doesn't even care that his patient is dying.”
“Oh
Adam," Ben scoffed, "how many times must I tell you that you're not
going to die." He smiled then patted him on his tingling shoulder. “Now, I
have to run down to the livery and make sure those horses will be ready to go
in the morning. You, young man, need to lie down for a while. You always tend
to get a bit overwrought when you’re in need of a nap." Grabbing his hat,
he headed for the door. "I don't know about the rest of you, but
I am certainly looking forward to getting out of the desert.”
His
pa was leaving him now -- in his hour of need? "But, what if...."
“Don't
worry, we won’t be gone long.” With a chuckle, Ben motioned for Hoss and Joe to
follow him. “Come along boys, let’s let your brother...uh, rest in peace.” As
soon as the door was closed, he heard his family burst into laughter.
“Very
funny." He sat down on the bed and silently lamented over the
misfortunes of his life and then began pondering his epitaph. He would
write something moving and dramatic, yet simple. Something proclaiming the
injustice of dying so young, with so many hopes and dreams unattained; the
anguish and suffering of his soul over being mocked and ridiculed by his
family.…
And
then he realized that the final ironic tragedy of his life, and death, was that
his right hand was completely numb, useless; he was incapable of holding a pen.
Resigned, he laid back on the bed hoping that at least they would bury him in
his new black outfit, with his new boots and his fancy, new jingle-bob spurs.
“Good-bye, cruel world,” he whispered, then closed his eyes and yawned
hugely as he felt consciousness drift away.