"What is 'nothing?'" asked Robert. "You said I was 'nothing' up until right now, and now I'm a person. Or about to be. But what was 'nothing?' What was I?"

Robert looked back at himself. "I guess I'm not sure. I took a class about—ah, it was about—Buddhism? And we learned that 'nothing' is the highest concept you can aspire to. Maybe it wasn't Buddhism...anyway, I think it was in line with most religious teachings: get rid of your attachment to yourself, and move upward. Be a better human." He looked down and was saw he still had his winter boots on, though there was no snow on them.

"So," began the other Robert, "what were you before?" He (the other Robert) was wearing the lime-green jersey shorts he had bought with his birthday money two days before eighth grade. They weren't the dumb jean shorts his mom always bought for him. They were sleek and fast, for playing basketball in gym class. And for looking like someone who plays basketball in gym.

Robert reached for the small of his back and rubbed it instinctively. "I was shovelling." Some of his other life's memories were vague; this was not. The background hum of neighbors' snowblowers and the glare white of the snow—and the sharp, cold air. That's what he remembered. Thinking he should have put coffee on before he stepped out of the house. Yes, the normal backache, but then...feeling his arms start to hurt, and the lead in his chest. "I had a heart attack, and I passed on to, ah—here." The sun had just risen, he remembered. Who died in the morning? What jackwagon author had written this script?

The other Robert made a palms-up shrug. Given that he'd never experienced anything, this would be a difficult conversation, in terms of context.

"Yeah," said Robert, doing an unsurprisingly accurate mimic of the other Robert's shrug. He heard his winter work jacket swish with the gesture. Was there a reason he had to keep wearing this outfit? Would he get hot? If death's "sweet release" could not even liberate you from your winter gear, then this had to one of the more overrrated experiences in the universe.

"When do I get to start?" asked the other him, furrowing his brow. "You know? Start being?" He also had on the Metallica shirt from the Load tour. Green shorts, Metallica shirt. And the Nikes with the blue laces, too. Not just clothes, but signposts—almost like theme songs—from different times and places. He thought about playing guitar by the lake, the summer after he'd been to that Metallica show. He thought about snuggling with his sister in the old orange chair and her reading The Berenstain Bears to him. He thought about the way his granddaughter squeezed her arms around his waist when he took her on the old Honda motorcycle for the first time.

"As soon as I leave, I guess," said Robert. He looked to his right. A door (was it the basement door from the first house he lived in, with his mom? With the Hot Wheels in the basement?) stood in space, with an "Exit" sign over it. Behind other Robert stood a glass door with "Welcome" in all caps lettered above the push bar. A pang of longing, like nothing he had ever experienced in his life (even when he saw Jen Rickhart play basketball in high school; even when his daughter walked through the airport gate without looking back; even when he left the State Fair at night with the fireworks bursting overhead) hit him square in the chest from that door. Other Robert's door. Then, it was gone.

"Where are you going?"

"To that 'nothing' you asked me about, I think. Then you're 'something.' And that's easy enough to understand, right?" It was white apple blossoms and French fries and the sound of rain on the porch roof and your smiling friend handing you a cold can and a sleeping, sweaty child in your lap.

"Uh, no."

He smiled. "It'll be cold at first. And miserable."

"For how long?"

"Most of your life, if you don't play it right."

Other Robert's mouth opened slightly. He paused. "Are you scared?"

"Are you?"

"Yes."

"I suppose," he said in a low voice, "we're both being ridiculous. On the count of three." He grabbed the knob of his momma's basement door, and gestured Other Robert towards his door.

Other Robert hesitated. He rubbed the edge of the green shorts in between his index and middle fingers. Robert grinned at that and said, "It's time to know."

The "Welcome" door opened slightly, like a door letting out pressure from a domed sports stadium. Other Robert must have taken as a cue, because he reached out slowly and put his hand on the push bar.

"One..." They raised their eyebrows at each other.

"Two."

"Three." Robert turned the knob and pushed. He closed his eyes, and lifted one boot through the threshold.

"Would you rather die a peaceful death now or an excruciatingly painful death in three to six months?" Mister, or was it doctor, Monroe asked me.

"Are there no other choices?" Beyond the ever respectful beeping of my monitors, I heard the nurses swooshing down the hall way.

"Not for me. I'm the only Licensed Euthanizer in the area. I could maybe come back later, but it will cost you more."

"Oh," I mumbled. Monroe couldn't quite obscure his impatience with me. "How much is it now?" I asked.

"Today, since I'm already here, it would be six hundred dollars."

"And what would it be if I try to fight this out?" It was a question I hadn't even discussed with my brother.

"Well, that depends on my schedule. If it’s really inconvenient the fee goes up to seven thousand dollars." I could feel the blood in my skin be replaced by cold sweat. Monroe seemed to notice, "That's why you really want to decide today."

My mind reeled through the last few days of terrible pain, tests, hospital staff, and doctors, then the diagnosis of pancreatic cancer, terminal, and far advanced. Then earlier today, my doctor, Dr. Truitt had said, "I know this is a lot on you, but I've got someone I want you to talk to. It's Dr. Monroe (oh, doctor), and he can talk with you about your options." Evidently, treatment was not a Medicaid option, and Dr. Monroe's options were: now or later.

Dr. Monroe drew in a breath and cleared his throat.

I looked up at him, my body already thinned from the last few weeks, as if the cancer had saved up all its power for one big push, "You know I'm only seventeen."

"Oh. That won't be a problem. The State recognizes the right of individuals of sound mind to make EOL decisions beginning at the age of twelve."

No future. I halfheartedly kicked myself for not doing more, taking more chances. I didn't know...I didn't know. And really I can't say if knowing would have made any difference.

Dr. Monroe, with his trim salt and pepper goatee suggested, "Maybe you want to talk to your brother? Could you call him now? I'll be leaving in an hour or so."

"My brother doesn't have any money," I said. I didn't bother to explain that after our parents died that we had little else besides each other.

"So, is it settled?"

"I guess so."

"Good enough."

After the procedure Dr. Monroe jetted off to the next hospital on his route. Six weeks later, Dr. Monroe and Dr. Truitt received a small stipend; but it was a fraction of what the hospital collected for “Excellence in Cost Containment” for the second quarter.

END

My eyes hold yours one second longer before I can’t stop myself from closing the distance. I swing my leg over your waist and pull your damp shirt from your skin, tossing it over the seat bench as my hand closes on the back of your neck. Your hands are cool as they pull my face in closer. Our mouths hot lava floods. I pull back and watch the sunbeams catch in the warm spots of your eyes. And your arms circle around me. And I know as you pull my tongue back into your own mouth. I know as yours slides across my teeth. I won’t come back up for air. This is where I drown.

I’m drowning in his veins. His heart, twice the size it should be, pumping tainted blood through the labyrinth buried beneath his skin. I take refuge in his lungs. And it’s then that I see what’s creating the cataract of sludge. Great piles of charred mess building across the walls. Too hot, poisoned air launched at me and him with kamikaze apathy and sniper-like precision. And all the while he spits the scorched oxygen to his heart. Cranking out more pollution than his body can dispose of. And me with my gas mask, hell-bent on tearing down the filth. I shovel it out like a chimney sweep in a stack that’s still on fire. Until my energy is spent. Until the tears stream hot and sulfurous, only adding to the contaminated blood. And I hope that if I stay here, a living thing inside of him, that the air that falls in on me will somehow be clean. That I can breathe life back into him. But the sky above me is filled with explosions of darkness. And the bombs only continue to fall.

“Today I will be happy.”

That’s how each page starts. That’s how each day starts.

“Today I will be happy.”

It’s perfect. Hanni never has to think. She could. If she wanted, she could think. But why? It’s all written so well. When you’re born you’re given your book. The story of your life. What you will decide to eat every day. How many errands you’ll run. The people you’ll meet. Who you like. Who you hate. All of it foretold for you. Your first day of school. Your wedding day. The day you get your wisdom teeth pulled. The birthdays. The sick days. The lazy days. The memorable moments. All written down. Black and white. Clean page after neat, clean page.

And, “Today I will be happy,” atop every one of them.

“Today I will be happy.”

Hanni stretches. Because that’s what her book says.

“Today I will be happy. And to start today I stretch.”

She scratches her cat, Jax, behind the ears. She showers. Eats eggs. Makes her bed. Hanni dresses for work. She grabs a bottle of water and an apple and is out the door. Because that’s what her book says. And each day is just like this.

“Today I will be happy.”

Stretch. Cat. Shower. Eggs. Clean. Dress. Water, apple. Work. Stretch. Run. Relax. Read. Bed. Sleep. Happy. Stretch. Cat. Shower. Eggs. Clean. Dress. Water, apple. Work. Stretch. Run. Relax. Read. Bed. Sleep. Happy. Stretch. Cat. Shower. Eggs. Clean. Dress. Water, apple. Work. Stretch. Run. Relax. Read. Bed. Sleep. Happy. Stretch. Cat. Shower. Eggs. Clean. Dress. Water, apple. Trip.

Wait. Trip?

Hanni trips. She glides down her front steps like every other day. Her office is 8 blocks from home. And at the third block, Hanni trips. Her arms reach out in a quick attempt to save herself, but it’s too late. She had never planned on tripping. The apple rolls to her right and her water bottle and book fly into the street. A car passes over the bottle and water explodes in every direction. And Hanni’s heart breaks. The book is drenched. She can’t remember seeing this in the book ever. She can’t remember anyone ever ruining their book. Hanni snatches up her book and returns home. No one calls to see why she’s not at work. No one has a book that says she will not be at work. Her life was simple. She had skipped ahead several times and she knew that she was happy. Her life, happy and unremarkable. She would stay happy and healthy until retirement. At which time Jax would pass. She would be happy though because he lived a long, happy life with her. And she would take her retirement money and travel. A new city to be happy and stretch and make the bed in every year until she died herself.

Unremarkable but happy. She could keep going on. She mostly knew the plan. After all, it was unremarkable...

Tomorrow Hanni would wake up and continue the way she had been.

Today I will be happy.

And Hanni’s doorbell rings. Before her eyes are even open, her doorbell rings. That has never happened before. She opens the door and finds a new book on her steps. A red ribbon tied around its leather bound pages.

This book does not say she will be happy.

This book is empty but for one page.

The words are scrawled in her own writing.

They are not neat. They are not even straight or centered. There are splotches where it looks like someone may have not only spilt coffee but also cried. And along the edges someone has inked in little roses and vines. And somewhere in the mess, in Hanni’s own script is just one message.

“Today I will live.”

Simple rhythm slowly slips into your mind. Booming bass deep and low, filling your chest with humming vibrations. Thume, Thume, Thume. The ivory sounds of piano twinkle in, light and somber in their melody. You hear the low echo of a cello in the background, who’s strings are a catacomb of whimsical mystery. Bringing you down into depths you didn’t even know existed. Each string trembles in anticipation of the next pass of the bow. One more they seem to whisper, Just One More. They wrap around your wrists, firm and commanding. You open your eyes. The room is dark. There is no furniture. The music turning slow circles in your head grows louder every few minutes. You wait and watch quietly, patience having claimed your normally havoc ridden mind for a few moments of itself (patience I mean). There is nothing else but this moment, as the dark wispy shadows start to appear. They come from the corners, ceiling and windows. Their turns are slow and graceful, full of smoke and a lingering sense of deception. The rhythm of the music is a low roar in the back of your mind as they approach you. With ghost-like finger tips, they coax you forward, bringing you into their world of whips' and shadows and darkness. The music stops. They disappear. You stand in the center of the dark, hushed room. Alone.

#Music #Slowdancinginthedark #Inspiration #Prose