The Last Death

Josh MacLeod

Note that some of this story has references to Coleridges Phyme of the Ancient Mariner as well as an adapted quotation from it.

Beep . . . beep . . . beep . . .

With a scowl, Sandra looked up from the desk she sat at, paperwork strewn about her and the garbage bin brimming with other papers. She had long since filled up the recycle bin and was feeling too tire to get another one. Besides, she was not in a "Save The Environment" mood today. She looked up the hallway to confirm, once again, that the door to room 33284 was closed.

Beep . . . beep . . . beep . . .

Sighing deeply, Sandra turned on the music beside her -- Anything to drown out that noise , she reasoned-- and ignore the fact that she was violating protocol. She returned to the papers with a spiteful feeling of satisfaction but began to tap her fingers restlessly on the polished, plain countertop. It was a pale peach, almost the same colour as the walls, except that the walls had simple, donated painting to get rid of their barrenness. She placed some papers on the counter itself, to make it seem more alive, in a way, more bright and lively.

Beep . . . beep . . . beep

She was hearing the bloody sound through the door and the music this time! At this rate, she would not be done for at least another day and, while sleep was unnecessary for her, a break would be vital soon or the tiled, white floors and the bland walls would drive her mad.

If only there was a way to make a hospital . . . inviting , comfortable. Instead, it seems like mourning waiting to happen, as if it was already grieving. Sandra shook her head, dispelling such thoughts. Grieving, indeed! It would not be long before no one had to grieve again. She recalled the stories of her mother, of the times when ways to reverse ageing had just begun, when the methods of stopping death were just theory. Now, they were practise.

Beep . . . beep . . . beep

Not that there weren't some difficulties, with some reacting violently against the treatments and some old fools refusing it. There was talk about it being banned in some areas because it went against Gods will. Hell, if it went against God's will, why would we have it? Sandra reasoned. Idiots! Trying to ban eternal life. That would be like trying to halt progress. It couldn't be done but some idiots were always trying and slowing it down.

Beep . . . beep . . . beep . . .

With a soft curse, Sandra got up, brushed off her nurse's uniform and walked to room 33284. She would never get any peace with that old man in their and that life support unit beeping away. Life support unit. She shook her head in wonderment. They ended up finding it in a museum to use for him. Poor old man, no one knows where he came form but one day he was just lying outside the hospital and was brought in. He seemed to reject the shots and needles to make him immune to age and no one had a clue with what to do with him.

Her slippers made a soft whispering sound as Sandra continued down the hall. The beeping did not get any louder but neither did it stop. She opened the door cautiously and was surprised to see the old man sitting up, looking tired but awake.

"Hello." She said, suddenly shy, and the old man turned his head towards her. She tried not to pull back in revulsion as she saw his face fully for the first time. He had no eyes: just pits of blackness where they should have been. Ironically, there were tears slowly trickling down his weathered cheeks but the old man seemed not to notice as he stare at her.

"Hello," e said quietly, "and who might you be?"

"Sandra, sir." She said, moving towards him. "You have had a rough night so if you'll just take your medication, we will . . . "

He looked straight at her and her medical training - her shield - failed her. Sandra paused, shaken in some odd way and met his gaze. "Who are you?" She asked boldly and saw him smile.

"An ancient mariner," He said, but it seemed as if he were joking. "If you were a wedding guest, I might stop you but you may continue."

"Wedding guest?" Sandra asked in puzzlement.

"Have you not read your poetry?" He asked in a faintly accusing voice.

"Poetry?" Sandra was truly shocked. "Why should we read when every book is the same to people who live forever?"

The old man looked shocked at the idea of books being the same and drew himself up as if to reply but then murmured "Live forever . . . " softly and fell silent, as if suddenly exhausted. Sandra walked over with the needle and began to lift up his arm when he seemed to draw strength from somewhere and met her eyes, his white beard getting tangled in his sheets. "Do you fear my skinny hand?" He asked simply and Sandra stared at him.

"Are you all right, sir?" She asked hesitantly and he laughed quietly but without humour.

"No. Has the albatross has fallen, been brought down from the sky ? No, for it hangs not about my neck. Maybe it has flown beyond my reach, then?" he mused quietly and Sandra could not bring herself to stop listening. "Instead, I have guilt around my neck, but maybe that was all the ancient mariner had. And he was resolved of his debts by heavenly angels that brought the dead back to life." At that moment, life seemed to spring into his eyes, and the old man laughed as if he was truly insane. "Brought the dead back to life! What a magnificent, absurd jest! What will happen to me then?" He demanded suddenly fierce. "The dead cannot come back if there are no dead and the unliving cannot guide me where I will soon go. Then who will aid me in my penance? Or do I have any right to ask for aid? A jest of cosmic scope." He laughed again, but was stopped by a coughing spasm that doubled him over in pan.

Sandra made as if to reach out for him, but he thrust her away with surprising strength. 'The Mariner was constrained to tell his tale, but am I?" He gazed at her with those awful sightless eyes for one long moment and sighed brokenly. "No. I have not the strength to change you, my tale would just drive you mad." He sighed. "Picture yourself as an albatross."

Sandra stared at him as if he were mad but he continued forcefully and she could not break his gaze. 'Picture yourself as dying but being taken away from death, being raised as you seem to have all been. The albatross of humanity was not shot down -- for death does not kill needlessly -- and instead rose above him, beyond him and the balance is now broken. I sail into uncharted waters, no spirit follows to plague me but my guilt drags me down! I, who once stood greater than any earthly king, drawn down into oblivion. The irony of it all, the irony . . . " He trailed off and Sandra waited for him to continue, though if asked she cold not have said why.

"No spirit follows me, you know. Nothing else conspires to bring me down save myself yet I must fall. Self imposed limitations are unbreakable, stronger than even life and more enduring than death." He laughed bitterly and fell silent.

Beep . . . Beep . . . beep . . .

"I have asked you to come here you know. The fact that you do not live means little."

"I am alive!" Sandra said, stung, no longer wondering where this odd conversation was going.

"No. You have merely progressed beyond living. Progress is not necessarily progressive. it is merely inevitable" He said and seemed to be quoting someone.

"The fact that we have life means we live!" Sandra said. angered by his foolishness.

"If you cannot die, how can you live?" The old man countered but did not seem to await a reply. "Yet than can be turned around," he mused. "If you live forever, what need is there of death? What need indeed?"

"What is your name?" Sandra asked, confused and grasping onto the one part of the conversation she could remember.

"I am a farmer, a wheat farmer." he smiled. "I cut it down, with the old tool, the scythe. But no longer. The fields are barren, as you all are barren. None can ever be cut again and thus the farmer is no longer needed . .. . and he has no government subsidies "

"What do you mean barren?" Sandra asked in puzzlement but the old man made no reply.

"I mean what I say, nothing more and nothing less." he sighed again, deeper than ever before, and seemed to wilt before her very eyes. "The ship has fallen apart and I drift alone . . . Upon the sea of death, where we still sail darkly, for we can not steer and have no port. Lawrence was right, no port and no place to go. The sea is endless yet I will be the last to drown in it, the last to go forth into the only true unknown."

"What do you mean?" Sandra asked, suddenly afraid for him.

"I will die this night." He said simply and Sandra stared in shock. What he had said was almost forbidden. "Die? Surely not!" She exclaimed but his mocking laughter made her flush.

"If any would know what death is like, my dear, I would. Though," He said reflectively, "I have not known it this way before."

"What are you saying?" Sandra said, her voice suddenly afraid.

"Are you sane? " He suddenly asked, his eyes once more catching hers with that unnerving intensity. 'Do you not long for sleep, for even a little slice of that death you have lost?" Sandra said nothing, fear and other, nameless emotions touching her and keeping her still. "No, I suppose not," He said and she felt as if some irrevocable brink had been reached and, due to her silence, passed.

Beep . . . beep . . . beep . . .

"I see." he said quietly. "I . . .see . . . " He turned away from her and lay back down upon the bed, looking far more fragile than he had earlier.

Beep . . . beep . . . beep . . .

"Goodnight," he said softly and turned away from her. "And don't let the bed bugs bite, for you will have nor respite from them, from any nightmares. . . . None at all. I am not strong enough to endure among those who cannot die." Sandra looked around the room but it seemed darker and she could not find the needles she had been holding moments ago. "Good bye Sandra Taylor, he said softly and then, faintly, barely louder than the beeping from the machine at his side, his voice rose into a soft chant, one Sandra had never heard but one that moved her deeply.

"If I should die before I wake, I give the Lord my soul to take." The old man said softly then said nothing else.

Beep . . . beep . . bee --

Sandra stood above the bed, feeling afraid to touch him -- To touch a corpse, she thought wonderingly -- and moved away, into them light of the hallway. Inexplicably, she felt a sudden longing for that darkness, as if it was somehow more real than the light. She shook off the emotion and walked back to the desk, to write her report on his death. She could not shake the notion that this was the last report, not just the last one she would have to write, but the last one forever.

She began to write, falling into the habit of making reports but then looked up, almost hearing a beeping that no longer existed. At least it finally stopped, a part of her grumbled, but then she broke down into tears. He was dead, and she did not know why. An old man had died and she mourned him, not knowing that she was doing the last mourning any human would ever do again.

His visage, with the scraggly beard, pale face and hollow eyes, haunted her and she knew the truth of his words that she would never be able to forget a nightmare again. Her first one would be his death. And my second wishing for my own, she realised without knowing how she knew that.

"How did he know my last name was Taylor?" She wondered suddenly, her voice sounding unnaturally loud in the stillness of the white, cold and empty corridors.

She reached mechanically for the phone to call the doctor and make a verbal report -- more to turn her mind away from her thoughts than anything else -- but paused, her hand over the touch tone phone and her eyes drawn to the old mans room. 33284 . . . 33284 . . . She looked at the phone, a feeling of dread and horrible realisation cresting within her. 3 - 3 - 2- 8 - 4. Without conscious violation, her hands touched the keys and the letters on each key.

	DEF	-	DEF	-	ABC	-	TUV	-	GHI. . .
	3	-	3	-	2	-	8	-	4 . . .
	D	-	E	-	A	-	T	-	H.

The phone fell from her nerveless fingers and she fell back herself, as if stricken with utmost pain. She walked slowly, feeling old for the first time ever and found that the room was empty, as if the old man had not been in there. Tear swelled and burned down her cheeks -- as they had down his scarred, old weathered cheeks -- and she cried as no mortal had ever cried.

	She went like one that hath been stunned,
	And is of sense forlorn:
	A sadder and a wiser man,
	She rose the morrow morn.

Sandra awoke to the sun shinning and the doctor calling her name. She did not hear him, only three simple words echoed through him mind:

Beep . . . beep . . . beep . . .

- Josh MacLeod (1998)