Falling, Forever
By: Kaiser Wilhelm II
I don’t want to live anymore.
I just want to fade away.
No more feelings…
“No more feelings…”
It’s been three years, five months, twelve days, eight hours, twenty-six minutes, and approximately 40 seconds since I was diagnosed with leukemia. Doctors said I’d be dead last year. They were wrong.
Why did they have to be wrong about so much?
I’ve been bedridden for the last two years and six months today. I was a frail guy before I got sick, so it didn’t take much to take away my mobility. The doctors and my family tried to get me things to help cheer me up. They all organized for a small private show by one of my favorite musicians, David Gray. It was nice. Wish I had recorded it. I guess it doesn’t matter now.
My family has spent more money on me than I can ever hope to repay. My parents have refinanced everything. Just thinking about it makes my stomach sink. My sisters gave up their college funds for my treatment. Not that it mattered, they’re both far smarter than me. They got scholarships without even needing to try. Good kids.
And yet, here I am. The perpetual moneysink. Ruiner of days. Or lives. Depends on how positive I’m feeling about myself that day.
My latest present was a little fluffy buddy. I named him Gilbert, after a childhood friend. He’s a little bugger, but funny. His big blue eyes are always darting around, taking in the world. He has so much joy. So much hope. So much ahead of him.
I want that back.
I used to be something. I used to be a voice actor in big movies and advertisements. I used to have a nice car and a big house with all the appointments I could ask for. I used to have girls and guys out the wazoo pining for me.
I used to be so… happy.
I don’t even feel sad now. That’s the worst part. I don’t feel a damn thing. Just a big hollow pit in my chest swallowing everything good about this world up into it and leaving nothing but a grey, miserable mess for me to look at.
I stare out my window and I don’t see the shining sun and blossoming oak trees adorning the golden-green grass of the ground. I see a murky, cloudy abyss overhanging husks of twigs that jut out of hard clay. I see vultures circling the hospital like they’re waiting for me to die.
I don’t want to see.
I tried to blind myself with a spoon they gave me a few months back. I was partially sucessful. Took out my left eye before they stopped me gouging out the right one. It didn’t even hurt. I was… am… so hopped up on opioids I didn’t even process the pain of ripping my own fucking eyeball out of my head.
I could process the pain of my family gathered around me, all sobbing because I was clearly mentally damaged beyond hope and physically about to croak. That hurt.
Gilbert doesn’t understand that though. He doesn’t know pain, or sadness, or agony, or self-loathing, or loss, or anger, or numbness. A part of me wants to take that innocence from him. It’s not fair that he gets to be free from all the torment that subjects me and my family day in and day out. But…
Another part wants to believe that even when I do die, Gilbert will be a reminder of who I was. The guy who used to surprise his sisters with visits from celebrities. The guy who paid for every single dinner for his family because he could. The guy who would do anything to help others because I don’t like helplessness.
I think the hopeful part has the right idea.
Gilbert nuzzles my chin as I take a deep breath and relax a little. “Daddeh, ‘ou gon’ get bettah, wight?”
I chuckle a little. He doesn’t understand. Good for him. “No, buddy… no, I don’t think so.”
“But Daddeh, if 'ou nu get bettah, 'ou hab huwties fow wong timies! ‘Ou get bettah fow Giwwbewt, an’ fow famiwy!”
I try not to shed a tear at that thought. I can’t do it. Even through the numbness, something breaks through.
“I know, buddy. I’ll try. Now, shh. Rest with me.” I murmur.
“…otay.”
I close my eyes and relax. I hope… I hope… they don’t miss me when I’m gone too much.
I fall, just forever, into the white, and all the background noise slips away from me…
Fuck you feelings. Be sad. Little something to prove I’m not dead (yet). Why yes, I do write a lot about sad people and them dying. How observant of you. Peace out.
-Willy