Time is a killer, waiting for us all...or so it seems
Pain. Not the kind that attacks you with an almost unbearable intensity suddenly like a heart attack or losing an arm or leg. The kind I’m talking about, the kind I’ve had to deal with these last few days isn’t locked to a particular portion of this frail, dying shell of a body. It’s not as intense but smothers every inch of my insides with a constant and unrelenting ache. It’s not that surprising, considering how many trips around the sun this old guy’s made, ninety-seven in total.
I glance around the room, my view hindered by the slow burning sensation spreading through this fragile neck. My room is sterile and cold. As inviting as a morgue would be, like what’s left of my life has become. It’s foreign to me. I’m not used it. Is this how things end for those not taken early? Anyone fortunate enough to live so long gets a lingering, painful and slow exit from this world? I stare into the blackness of the television screen angled down on me from the corner wall. It peers through me, ignoring me like all the nurses do day in and day out. I try to focus as I catch a reflection in the black hole of its square screen. The withering face staring back at me fills me with an anger that even this defeated old body can’t contain. I scream for the nurse, finding the call button.
Ten minutes and thirteen seconds later she finally enters, a tired fake smile masking her true emotions. I know exactly how long it’s been what with the large numbered wall clock directly opposite the foot of my small uncomfortable bed. I think they put it there on purpose to mock me. To constantly remind me that no one escapes time. Everyone except my Grandfather, Pat.
“How are we doing today, Mr. Dials?” She pushes a button at the top of the bed, extinguishing the call button light then pretends to prop my pillows. “Sorry for the delay, shift change.”
“Have you called my son yet?”
“Already done.”
“Do you have what I requested?” I fight the aches, willing this body upright in bed.
“Right here. Not sure why you wanted a tape recorder though.” I watch her smile fade into slight puzzlement as she makes the inquiry. She produces a small digital tape recorder from her nurse’s frock placing it on my chest. I don’t give in to her. I made that mistake a week ago when it happened, when my life turned upside down and I found myself here in this foreign fragile body. They didn’t believe me then, there’s no reason to even consider that they would believe me now. Early signs of dementia, that’s what the shrink they brought in called it.
“Thank you.” I try to sound grateful but I can tell the fake sincerity isn’t lost to her. She moves around toward the door. “Anything else?” the statement comes out with a tired unintentional sigh.
“No. When will he be here?”
“Soon. He mentioned on the phone that he was leaving shortly.”
“And my grandson? He’s bringing my grandson right?”
“Yes Mr. Dials. I mentioned you were very eager to speak to your grandson.”
“Good.”
She leaves the room as I bring the tape recorder up to examine it. It’s digital, records in mp3 mode like I wanted. Don’t want to mess with any of those antiquated mini-tape jokes. I press the play key and watch the green light glow before speaking into the tiny integrated microphone.
“My name is Jake Dials. I am sixteen years old not ninety-seven. I am making this recording as proof.” I hit the stop button bringing the recorder down to my chest, the pain of holding it up growing too unbearable. I curse the feeble limitations of this worthless body and clumsily tuck the device under the sheet covering me. I hear movement in the hallway and push the record button bringing my hand out into view again.
“Dad. How are you?” I can see the apprehension oozing from the man that thinks he’s my son. He enters the room gingerly as if ready to bolt into and down the hallway at any moment. What’s he afraid of? Does he think I can get out of this bed and tackle him? Last week, yes. Today, no. I stare through the man.
“Did you bring him?”
“Jake? He’s in the hallway. Didn’t want to come. You know teenagers. He’s in his own world. Hasn’t really talked much since we saw you last week.”
“Really.” I don’t hide my lack of feeling. “Can I speak to him? Alone?”
“Sure, Dad.” I watch the relief shower the man as if a large prison door has just been lifted behind him. “I’ll send him in.”
“Thanks.”
My hand feels for the outline of the recorder next to me. A sudden fear grips me. I realize that I didn’t check the battery. What if it dies in the middle of the conversation? I watch the second hand of the time thief hanging from the wall in front of me continue to count my life away with me. It seems like forever before the timid face of a sixteen year old peaks into the room.
“Its okay, Jake. I don’t bite, got no teeth remember?”
He enters the room like a deer wandering upon a clearing. I sit quietly not wanting the slightest sound or movement to startle him out of view. He stops at the foot of the bed and stares at my features.
“Hi, Grandpa Pat.”
“Grandpa, Pat? You and I both know that’s not the way you should address me.”
I watch his timid, shy features shift to the door checking for activity. He faces me again, a coy smile fights its way to the surface.
“Sorry, Jake.” He says in hushed tones.
I feel the anguish and hatred build with the bile in my throat. “How could you do this to me?” The first of the two questions burning in my mind for the past week spills out over these tired wrinkled lips. “How did you do this to me?”
Pat glances at the door again then slides around next to me, no longer the timid deer of before but the snake I know him to truly be. He leans close to me and begins speaking.
“I want to thank you Jake for this second chance at life you’ve given me. When you came last week, I could tell, could smell it on you, your lack of happiness. You practically reeked of the stench of meaninglessness. You clearly didn’t care about anyone or anything and were wasting your precious life. I simply found an opportunity to grant your wish and my own.”
“Regardless of how you did it, I want my body back. It’s my body! You have no right to it, to my life. What I chose to do with it is my own right.”
“You gave up that right when you stopped caring about life. You’ve been in my body for a week now. You now feel what I had felt for the last eight years. You now have a greater appreciation for what truly living means.”
“You have to switch us back, Grandpa.” It comes out of my mouth more of a plea than a demand and I curse myself immediately for my lack of control.
“I don’t have to do anything. I do appreciate the gift you’ve given me, Grandson. I will remember you for the rest of my life.”
I bring my arm up to strike him forgetting about the liquid feeding tube lodged into my artery. It rips out turning the dull ache into a fire in the small of my arm. The blood of an old man, his blood, sprays us both. He jumps back, the benefit of my youthful body at his disposal and then smiles at me.
“You won’t get away with this you evil bastard!” My arm goes limp falling to my side as he begins leaving. Dad and the nurse rush in and I watch Pat’s act as he tells them he doesn’t know what happened. He tells them I just flew off the handle trying to hit him in a rage.
“Dr. Sanderson mentioned that he might have fits of anger, another early sign of dementia.” The nurse tells Dad this in half volume, her mouth turned to the side as if doing so will somehow prevent me from hearing her. At least the old man has his hearing. I listen as dear old dad tells who he thinks is his son that it probably would be a good idea for him to not visit for a while.
After a few standard calming words from Dad and a clean washrag and a good dose of Demeral from the nurse, everyone leaves the room but me. I smile at the clock in front of me, the clock that has become my nemesis and pull out the recorder. I look for the comfort of the green light but it doesn’t meet my request. Panic begins to sweep over me as I press the play button. I hear nothing and realize that I should have checked the charge when the nurse brought it to me. So many emotions cloud my mind, confusing me.
Maybe I really am Pat Dial, a ninety-seven year old invalid on the verge of losing his mind. I force the thought out and begin crying.
I hope you enjoyed this short story. Check out my new book at http://stores.lulu.com/joesargent
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