He twisted in his linen sheets, that tired, old little man, and the rustle of dry skin on fresh twisted flax sounded dull and metallic in the austere room. Harsh light from the twin neon bulbs hovering above the bed reflected easily on his bald, tired, old little head, the few last wisps of marble white hair sticking out in all direction, like they were trying to get as far away as they could. His movement brought him to his side, and he propped a thin, tired, old little arm on the pillow, and laid his head in his crinkled hand. When he spoke to me, thick spittle gathered in the corner of his lips, and specks struck my legs.
“I’m afraid of dying all right. Terrified. Every time I close my eyes and think about it all I see is this never ending blackness, so deep it swallows you whole, except there’s nothing of you to really swallow. I never held to that notion of heaven; all my life I’ve know this time on this floating green orb is all the time I get. But every time I try to wrap my head around death, trying to think of what it will be like to not exist, I tremble.” He coughed suddenly, a long, racking and dry hack that shook his withered, tired, old little lungs in his weak, tired, old little chest. His whole body quivered, the loose skin hanging aimlessly from his bones shaking in neat waves. He managed to quell the rumbling, and wiped the phlegm away from his mouth. “I mean you can’t even picture it, really, not existing. I try to tell myself that I won’t care, because I won’t know I don’t exists, seeing as I won’t know anything. And that makes it better for a minute. But then I think about how not knowing anything is just as bad, maybe worse, then knowing everything. And all of a sudden I’m back in that thick, swampy black.”
I sat unmoving, watching his face contour with each word. Outside, the chatter of birds in the distant trees filtered in through the grinding hum of traffic. The sun beat down like crystal, but a cool wind was blowing steadily in from the west. The day was delicate, and seemed ready to break at the slightest shake.
The man reached over for a glass of water atop his nightstand. With a delicate sweep he plucked it up and brought it to his lips, drawing the tepid fluid down into his worn, tired, old little throat. He swallowed deeply, and then sighed as he returned the glass to the stand.
“I’m afraid for my daughter, too. Did you know I have a daughter?” I shook my head. “I do. She’s a student at the University. Melody Jacobs. Maybe she’s in one of your classes?” I shook my head again. It was a big school; the chances that she was in one of my classes were slim. Then again, I didn’t know the names of any the students in the classes I was taking, so she could have been sitting next to me half the time. “Well, she’s pre med. Gonna be a doctor. Not like the asses that prowl around here every day with their clipboards and their fake little smiles. She’s going to care. She has a boyfriend too. David, or something. And I’m scared because I know I’m never going to see her marry that boy, or any boy at all. Never going to see her in that white, pretty dress walking and smiling and crying. Never going to see her have a baby of her own, and care for it and love it as much as I did for her. My wife, her mother, passed away a few years back, and I’m scared because I’m all the family she has left. I’m scared because I know she knows it. She’s going to try desperately to make these last months we have count for something. But you can’t force memories like that, and I’m scared what she’ll come away with is just this sadness that never really gets plugged up.”
He sighed deeply, his weak, tired, old little shoulders sinking into the mattress, pulling down at his neck and exposing the thin collar bones hidden beneath his smock. Breathing in deeply through his collapsed, tired, old little nostrils, he rolled back over onto his back, and traced the crevices of the cold white ceiling with his forgetting eyes.
"Most of all," he said in a surrendering whisper, as though he were afraid he himself would hear it, "most of all I'm afraid of not being afraid. I'm terrified that these months of chemo and drugs and pain and sadness will beat me down so far I welcome death, like some kid running to his momma when he scrapes his knee. I ain't done a lot in my life, but I've always been a man who stands on his own two feet and provides for his family with money he can take from his own pocket. And now. Now," he paused, his throat catching as a muddy, tired, old little tear slid out from his dusty sockets, "now I'm gonna sit down and take what they feed me and do what they tell me, and I'll end up this husk that can only grin, ask for more, and wait to not be afraid anymore." He stopped, smacking his lips with his tongue like a mourning salute.
We stayed like that for a while, time passing loosely between us as he cried gently and I watched and listened. Silence passed between us in stutters. Behind me, a door slid open, casting a long shadow as it swung across the linoleum floor. I turned, and watched the nurse stride confidently in, a tray of food clenched between her fat fingers. Her eyes caught mine and she jumped.
"Who are you?" she demanded, scuttling over and setting the tray on the nightstand, sliding the water glass to the side with her hand. "Visiting hours are over, you're not supposed to be here."
I looked up at her. She looked back, expectantly. Silence.
"Well?" she demanded, throwing up her arms. "Answer me.
"I'm no one, and you're right, I shouldn't be here. I'll leave." I stood up and slipped my jacket from my chair. I took a few short steps forward and angled passed the nurse. Leaning down, I extended a hand towards the man. He grasped it, and weakly tried to pull it down. I obliged, and leaned further in, my ears hovering just above his cracked lips. He whispered to me, filling my head with his defeated, tired, old little words-
"Don't come back here, stranger. I don't want to be seen anymore. But don't forget: we're all scared of something."
I straightened up and he winked at me. The nurse was tutting and tapping her foot impatiently on the floor, so I turned quickly and strode out of the door and into the bustling hallway. Nurses in pretty little uniforms rushed passed me as I made my way to the stairs, the occasional doctor with a stethoscope glancing aloofly from wall to wall blocking a door or entrance. It was enough visiting for one day. I beat down the echoing steps of the dank stairway, and kicked open the door at the base, stepping outside into the cool spring air. Past the clouds, the sun fought through the cold air and bathed my face in yellow sheets, and, high above in a lonely room, cast shadows across the eyes of a tired, old little man.