The Dead and the Dying

by Amy Cross

  "You want to sit on here for me?" Dr. Gibbs asks, tapping the bed.

  Taking a seat, I watch as he grabs a set of notes from his desk. He seems more subdued than usual, which immediately gets me worrying. Dr. Gibbs is usually annoying chirpy and depressingly resistant to bad news, but there's something different about him this time.

  "I guess it'll be goodbye soon," I say, looking down at my chest. I reach up and give my breasts a squeeze. "You've been good friends, boobies, but we all knew this'd have to happen some time. I'll try to have fun without you, and you... Well, see what you can do." I lean closer. "I think your odds are limited," I add with a whisper, forcing myself to smile before I realize I'm on the verge of tears. Sitting up, I take a deep breath as Dr. Gibbs comes back over to me. There's no fucking way I'm going to cry. Not today.

  He stands in silence for a moment.

  "Is there a problem?" I ask.

  As soon as he looks at me, I can tell that my worst fears are coming true. Something's wrong. I mean, something's been wrong for a while, but it looks as if something's more wrong this time.

  "Just tell me," I continue, trying to keep my voice from trembling.

  "We're still going to go ahead with the surgery," he says after a moment, his eyes filled with sadness, "but your latest test results..." He pauses. "The cancer has metastasized to your liver."

  "Wow," I say, suddenly feeling very aware of my heart pounding in my chest. "It must really hate me, huh?"

  "We'll deal with the original tumor first," he continues. "That's the priority, and that's what we'll resolve today, because we need to reduce the potential for more damage to occur. After that, we'll have to decide on the best course of action regarding your liver, which will either be chemotherapy or radiotherapy. We've still got options to fight this thing, Jo, and science is advancing at great rates every year."

  I wait for him to finish.

  "But?" I say eventually.

  "I have to be honest with you," he continues, "and admit that this is very much the worst-case scenario for your particular cancer. I was hoping we'd catch it early enough to prevent it from spreading, but clearly that hasn't been the case."

  "So how long have I got left?" I ask.

  "It's impossible to say."

  "Best case scenario," I say firmly, even though I'm terrified of the answer. "If everything goes really fucking well, what's the best case? How long?"

  He pauses. "You're looking at anywhere between one to five years," he says finally.

  "Hell, that's fine," I reply, my voice starting to crack a little. "I thought you were gonna say one to five minutes."

  "It's not a joke," he says firmly.

  I take a deep breath, trying to stay calm. I swear, if I was alone right now, I'd be a sobbing mess. Looking down, I start playing with the hem of my gown, twiddling the fabric between my fingers. For a moment, I'm able to clear my mind completely, leaving nothing behind but a faint nagging feeling that something's terribly wrong. Damn it, I wish I could just stop thinking. Why do humans have to be so goddamn aware of their own mortality?

  "Do you have anyone you'd like me to call?" he asks.

  I shake my head.

  "Your parents?"

  "Dead."

  "You have to keep your spirits up," he continues with a sigh. "With a little luck, we can give you a good shot. I've known you for a long time, Jo, and you're one of the strongest people I've ever met."

  I force a smile, still looking down at my hands as they play with the hem. I don't feel strong right now.

  "Isn't there any chance I could beat it?" I ask finally, choking back the tears.

  "There's always a chance," he replies, "but I can't give you false hope. The best I can do is tell you that we're going to fight to prolong your life for as long as possible, and we have some very exciting new therapies that are showing real promise. Once I've examined your test results more closely, I might be able to apply for you to get onto some new studies, but I don't want you to be under the impression that..." He pauses again. "We have to focus on giving you the best possible window and ensuring that your quality of life remains high until the end."

  I nod, unable to say a word. After a moment, I close my eyes, hoping to stop the tears; it doesn't work however, and I feel my bottom lip start to tremble.

  "I'm going to give you a moment to gather your thoughts," he says, conspicuously placing a box of tissues next to me, "and then I'm going to come back and talk you through today's surgery." Placing a hand on my shoulder, he pauses. "You can fight this. I know you're strong enough, Jo. If anyone can stay firm, it's you. We're gonna keep pushing to make sure you hit the upper-end of the timescale, okay? Five years, maybe even more." With that, he turns and heads to the door. I hear him pause for a moment, as if he's about to say something, but finally he steps outside and pulls the door shut.

  Once I'm alone, I suddenly become very aware of the silence all around me. I can hear the distant sounds of people walking along the corridor, but somehow it's as if they're on another world. All I can think about is the fact that, suddenly, my life has a very definite time limit; it's as if there's a countdown clock running in my head, constantly reminding me that I don't have long left. This thing is inside me, eating away at me, and there's nothing I can do to stop it. I've faced seemingly impossible odds before, and I've always managed to find a way out. Nothing has ever been able to keep me down forever, but I've finally come up against something that doesn't seem to offer any hope at all.

  Still fiddling nervously with the hem of my hospital gown, I feel tears trickling down my face. I lower my head, but I can barely even see as I try and fail to hold back the flood of tears. Soon I'm sobbing, gulping back air as I desperately try to pull myself together. I haven't cried like this since I was... much younger. I just hope I can stop before Dr. Gibbs comes back. The last thing I want is for someone to ever see me like this, breaking down completely.

  Epilogue

  Two weeks later

  "You'll be in the observation room, with the family members," says the guard as he leads me along the dull gray corridor. "The warden has specifically ordered that you're not to be allowed into the execution chamber itself." He glances at me. "For obvious reasons."

  I grin back at him.

  He checks his watch. "Just a few minutes to go," he continues as we reach the door to the observation room. Inside, there are already some people gathered nervously, while a curtain has been drawn across a glass window at the far end. These are the family members, gathered to get their pound of flesh. I recognize some of them from the last time Gazade was up for the chop, and they all look so serious, as if none of them can see the lunacy of this whole ritual.

  "Once the process is complete," the guard continues, someone will come and take you to a waiting room. We'll make arrangements for everyone to leave through a back door, to avoid the crowds out front.

  "Ms. Mason," says a voice nearby, and I turn to see Governor Hazel Lockley striding toward me. "I'm so glad you were able to join us again."

  "And I'm so glad that, as a victim of Sam Gazade's, I couldn't be denied access," I say with a smile. "Even if someone had made multiple attempts to get me barred, including making several phone calls to local judges and also delivering a personal appeal directly to the state prison board."

  She smiles. "I believe you have something for me, Ms. Mason."

  "I do?" After a moment, I realize what she means. "Right. Sure." Taking a deep breath, which sends a shiver of pain through my chest, I decide that it's now or never. "Without irony or sarcasm, I'd like to offer my sincere apologies for everything that happened the last time I was here. I hope you'll accept this apology in the spirit in which it's intended, which is one of respect and friendliness." I pause for a moment. "Along with other genuine emotions, too numerous to mention."

  "Very convincing," she says with a grin. "I almost believe you."

  "Almost is close enough, right?" I reply with a shrug.

  "Y
ou'd better get in position," she says, clearly accepting that she's not going to get anything better out of me. "We're ready to start, and I think we've already had enough disruption to last a lifetime."

  "And you've done your job this time, yeah?" I say. "I mean, you've actually got enough drugs to kill the bastard, haven't you? Even if some crazy psycho bitch causes a scene and makes you drop a vial?"

  Without replying, Lockley turns and heads through to the main chamber, leaving me to make my way into the observation room. I'm immediately struck by the solemn faces of the other people in here. They all lost loved ones to Sam Gazade, and they've waited twelve years to witness his execution. I guess this is some kind of cathartic experience for them, although they all look pretty pained as they wait for the curtain to be drawn back.

  Taking my place at the side, I reach a hand under my shirt and check that my bandages are in place. It's been a couple of weeks since I had the mastectomy, and I'm still sore as a motherfucker, but there was no way I was going to let massive, throbbing pain keep me from coming here tonight. There were some people who told me I should come and witness justice being delivered as Gazade met his end, and others who said I should stay away to avoid upsetting myself. The truth, however, is that I'm not here because of justice or because of a desire to see Gazade suffer. I'm here for a completely different reason. I'm here to see what it's like when someone dies.

  Feeling a brief pain in my chest, I instinctively reach up and touch the spot just below my collarbone. I'm heavily bandaged after the operation, and Dr. Gibbs ordered me to stay in bed and avoid stress while I recovered from the mastectomy. I couldn't miss Gazade's execution, though. Reaching into my pocket, I almost take out the bottle of pain medication before forcing myself to remember that I can't afford to let my mind get hazy again. If I really only have a few years' life left, I'm damn well not going to spend it in some kind of drug-induced stupor. Pain, I can deal with; that's something Sam Gazade taught me, long ago.

  Suddenly the curtain is pulled open and I see Gazade strapped to the table. It's a horrific, edifying moment, and somehow it seems much more unreal now that I'm on this side of the glass. It's like I'm watching the whole thing on a screen.

  "He looks so calm," says one of the men standing nearby.

  "It's an act," says a woman.

  "I want him to scream," the man replies. "I don't care if that makes me a bad person, but I want that bastard to beg for his life, the way..." His voice trails off, and the room falls silent.

  I step closer to the glass, watching with fascination as the final needles are inserted into Gazade's bare arms. He's staring straight up at the ceiling, as if he's barely even aware of everything that's happening. Last time he was on the table, he kept talking to me, as if he was trying to distract himself; this time, without that benefit, he seems to be in some other kind of mental zone. I always wondered what Sam Gazade would do when he faced his final moments, and now it's clear that despite all his bravado, his impending death has brought him to a standstill.

  "Do you have any final words?" asks Governor Lockley, standing next to Gazade's bed. "If so, now is the time to make a statement."

  There's the faintest twitch in his eyes, as if he's considering a response, but he finally he just continues to stare at the ceiling.

  "Coward," one of my fellow observers says.

  "What did you expect?" asks another. "He's never going to apologize for what he did."

  The technicians are getting busy now, working on the machines that are going to pump drugs into Gazade's body. Finally, after a brief moment of calm that ends with Governor Lockley nodding at one of the other men in the room, a switch is pressed and a line of almost-clear fluid begins to run through the plastic tubes. I watch as the fluid enters Gazade's body, and he opens his mouth for a moment, as if he's going to say something.

  "This is still too good for him," says a woman standing next to me. There are tears in her voice, and she turns to sob on the shoulder of one of the men. "Why should he get to die without pain, after everything he did?"

  I take another step forward, trying to get the best possible view of Gazade's face. His eyes seem to have narrowed a little, and I'm not certain, but I think his lips are trembling, almost as if he's quietly saying something to himself. My heart is pounding as I watch a flicker of recognition cross his eyes, and then - without any warning - he lets out a loud gasp as his eyes widen. His hands grip the side of the table and his whole body seems to be come tense, before finally he lets out a deep breath and falls completely still. I watch as his glassy eyes continue to stare up at the ceiling, but although I'm trying to catch the exact moment of his death, I finally realize that he slipped away sometime during that gasp. There was no great moment of epiphany, no hint of anything greater; just a human body, convulsing in its moment of death as its mind died.

  And yet his face looks different. It's as if, now that the life has left his body, his skin has begun to sink into his skull, and his features seem drawn and somehow older. Reaching up, I brush my hand against my left cheek, trying to imagine how I'll look when death has hollowed out my features in the same way. I keep telling myself that it's all in my mind, but I swear, he looks different. Older. Waxy. Smaller, even. Death has changed his features, and he barely even looks like himself. It's a sudden, startling transformation.

  I take a deep breath. So that's what it's like. That's what happens. Ignoring the people crying and talking in the observation room with me, I continue to stare as a sheet is drawn over Gazade's dead body, covering his dead face. I don't really know what I was expecting, but I didn't think there'd be such a strong and obvious change in his physical appearance.

  I don't need to see any more. Pushing past the gathered group of onlookers, I hurry out of the room and make my way along the corridor. Death isn't magic. It's just an end, and it was dumb of me to expect anything else. We all get there in the end, but some get there a lot sooner. The dividing line between the dead and the dying is so thin, it's almost impossible to spot; it's like a shadow, passing across the face and brushing away the dust of life. As I reach the main door and wait to be buzzed out, I glance at a nearby mirror. Maybe I'm imagining things, but I swear to God, it's as if that shadow has already started to cross my face.

  Bonus

  Except from

  Darper Danver

  Available now from Amazon

  Cassie Briggs

  "Stop the car!" I shout, banging on the back of the driver's seat. "Stop! Right here!"

  "I thought you were going to Branch Street," the guy says grouchily as he brings the taxi to a halt and reaches out to stop the meter. "You told me Branch Street. That's another two miles. I oughta charge you for Branch Street."

  "I don't care," I mutter, furiously sorting through my purse before pulling out the voucher I was given to cover the journey, which I throw onto the front seat. "This is fine. Thank you!" Without waiting for him to reply, I get out of the car, my eyes fixed on the house on the other side of the street. My heart is racing and even though I know I should go straight home, I'm suddenly filled with an urge to go to this house instead. Actually, 'urge' isn't the right word: I have to go inside. My body demands it. I've waited too long.

  "You'll be wanting this," the taxi driver says, limping around to the back of the vehicle and opening the boot, before hauling my suitcase out and dropping it on the side of the road.

  "Thanks," I say, ignoring the suitcase and jogging across the road. The house looks exactly the same as before. It's as if nothing has changed in the five years I've been away, and I even recognize the beat-up old truck in the front yard. Hurrying toward the porch, I make my way up the steps, and even though I know this is an absolutely terrible idea, I reach out and try the door. Sure enough, it swings open and I walk into the hallway, where I'm immediately confronted by the smell of a very familiar brand of cologne.

  He still lives here.

  "Fisher!" I shout, hurrying to the kitchen but not finding anyo
ne. "Fisher, where are you?"

  Seconds later, I hear footsteps coming down the stairs, and I run back out into the hallway just in time to see Fisher Benhauser stop dead in his tracks as soon as he sees me. The look on his face is priceless: he seems absolutely stunned, as if he never, ever expected to see me again. Without giving him time to react, I hurry over and put my arms around his shoulders, before shifting my weight forward and forcing him down to the ground. I quickly get on top of him, and before I know what I'm doing, my trembling hands are reaching down to the front of his trousers, undoing the button.

  "Um..." he mutters. "Wait -"

  "No," I say breathlessly, starting to pull his trousers down before reaching into his boxers and feeling his thick, placid penis in my hand. "I've waited long enough."

  "No, Cassie, stop," he continues, trying to push my hands away.

  "No," I reply, stroking him as I lean closer and try to kiss him. He resists, turning his head first one way and then the other while keeping his lips tight shut.

  "Cassie!" he splutters. "Stop!"

  "No!" I say forcefully, finally slipping my tongue between his lips. I can feel his penis growing in my hand, which tells me all I need to know: he still wants me. After all this time, he hasn't forgotten. He waited.

  "Cassie!" he shouts, still trying to push me away. "Get the hell off of me!"

  "No!" I shout.

  "Fuck!" he shouts back, slamming me against the wall before moving away as he slips his penis back into his pants. "What the holy fuck is wrong with you?"

  "What's wrong with me?" I reply, shocked at the way he's behaving. "What's wrong with you?"

  "Jesus Christ!" he says, fixing his clothes.

  I stare at him. Totally out of breath and feeling horny as hell, it's all I can do to keep from leaping back on top of him. The truth is, it never even occurred to me that Fisher Benhauser wouldn't want me. It's the memory of his kiss, and his touch, that kept me going while I was in prison, and even though he didn't write to me or come visit, I know that nothing's changed between us. We've always been made for each other, and the time apart is only going to prove that more than ever. We didn't need to communicate. We're stronger than that.