The Void

by Bryan Healey

"I think that is the best way to die. On your own schedule, when you choose."

  No! I don't know that!

  "I don't want to be old and miserable."

  You won't be!

  "And who knows, maybe I'll get mercy. Maybe I'll see you! I've always wondered what it would be like to meet you. I've watched you lay here for years."

  I'd like to meet you, too!

  But here, alive!

  "I'll always think of you, Max... For however long I can, I'll always think of you..."

  Please, Sarah, enough of this!

  "And I'll be here as long as you are..."

  Sarah, please...

  "I hope I'm something of a comfort to you."

  You are! You most certainly are!

  You give my nights sound, give my silence a break, a voice to the void! I could not have kept my sanity, kept my mind, kept my peace, without your songs of conversation!

  You're my angel by night!

  "You've certainly been a comfort to me..."

  I'm glad...

  "...as odd as that may sound." And she giggles ever so lightly, and the ruffling of sheets ceases.

  I don't find it odd...

  ...although, I am a vegetable...

  I would laugh with her, if I could...

  "I'll see you tomorrow, Max. Sleep well."

  I will rest, at the very least... Sleep is something else entirely, but rest for sure...

  I always rest...

  And then further silence...

  "Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been many months since my last confession."

  "Tell me, child, what troubles you?"

  I am in a church, somewhere downtown, having left work early and having no reason to return home. Jenny is at some school function with Brian, and I can't get in after it starts.

  And I can't be home alone...

  "I'm lonely, Father."

  "Lonely?"

  "Yes, Father, even at home."

  "Are you unmarried?"

  "No, I am. And a father."

  "Then why do you feel lonely?"

  "She can't understand me."

  "Have you tried helping her understand?"

  "No," I answer honestly.

  "Why not?"

  "Because she could never understand."

  "What could she never understand?"

  "How I feel, what I feel..."

  The priest takes a breath, slowly exhaling. He seems frustrated with me; or perhaps trying to figure me out... it was difficult to tell...

  "Son," he began, slowly, carefully, "you can tell me in confidence anything you wish. So tell me, what do you feel? What can she never understand?"

  I rub my chin, momentarily considering leaving the confessional and disappearing; but I came here to talk, and so that's what I will do...

  "That I want the drugs."

  "Drugs?"

  "Yes, drugs."

  "Why would you want drugs, my son?"

  "I want to not feel, Father. I want to stop seeing the blood and the sand and the face of the men who killed my friends. I'm just so tired," and I begin to cry, gently, but noticeably, "tired of everything, of feeling again, of the nightmares. I'm tired of everything... everything..." I cough, rub my nose.

  "I'm tired of living." I conclude.

  "Of living?"

  "Yes," I confess. "The only reason I'm here now is for my son, for my wife. I couldn't hurt them like that. I couldn't leave them like that," and I take a deep, slow breath, keeping my chest in control.

  "You must let go, my son."

  "Let go?"

  "Of the demons that haunt you. Of the pain in your soul, you must surrender it to God and allow him to care for you. You can't do it alone."

  "I don't believe in God," I further confess.

  "You don't?" He seems genuinely shocked.

  "No, I don't. I don't know that I ever have."

  "Then why, my son, do you come to His house and seek counsel with His disciple? Why are you talking with with me, looking for the will of the Lord?"

  "I'm not looking for the will of the Lord."

  "Then what do you seek?"

  "I seek-" and I burst forth a momentary sob, my chest heaving and my eyes leaking; I rub my cheeks vigorously and wipe my eyes, circular, pressing until I can see spots flecked against the back of my lids.

  "Go on, my child..."

  "I seek, I guess, compassion."

  "Compassion?"

  "A listening ear."

  "There are many listening ears in the world who do not follow only the will of our Father. I believe you are seeking more than compassion. You are seeking faith. You wish to believe, and you wish to surrender. You know the Lord is out there, waiting for you, and you wish to find him."

  "No-"

  "My child-"

  "No!" I shout, more fervently than deserved. I cup my hands over my mouth, to restrain myself. "No," I repeat, more softly, firmly, honestly.

  "Then tell me, why do you seek compassion here, in the house of the Lord?"

  "Because it's what I know."

  "It's what you know?"

  "I came here, as a boy. With my father and my mother. I sat in the third row, every Sunday, and said my prayers and took communion. I listened to the hymns and listened to the sermons, and while not a word of it made any sense to me... I felt..."

  "Compassion?" He offers.

  "Peace."

  "Peace?"

  "I felt peace. Everyone was... nice. They said hello to me, shook my hand, told me how handsome I was and how proud my father must have been. I felt like... like... I belonged. It was peaceful."

  "And you wish to remember that peace?"

  "Yes," and the voice breaks, no longer am I able to control it. My eyes leak further, salty water streaming down my cheek and dripping off my chin and into my lap. "I want to remember that peace."

  "You believe it will take away your nightmares and help you regain your desire to live, to be alive, to be the man you should be?"

  "Yes," and squeak out, "I need it."

  "You need the Lord, my son."

  "There is no God!"

  "Forgive me for being obvious, my child," he begins with a gentle chuckle, "but I disagree. And I believe, whether you wish to acknowledge it or not, that you came in here this evening to find the truth, that there is a God, that he cares for you, and that he wants to help you find your peace."

  "No, I do not-"

  "My child-"

  "No! There is no God!" I shout, furious, bitter, angry. "I can't believe there can be a God, a benevolent protector that lets men be slaughtered for no reason other than an accident of where they were born and what men they've never met did to people they never knew! A god who cared for the world, who wanted his children to prosper, would not let hate be bred so deep and thorough that even a child can be used as a weapon; that even good men with good intentions can be warped so thoroughly that they see no wrong in shooting that same child right between the eyes as his sister and mother and father watch, helplessly, crying furiously." I slam my fists on the wall, once, twice, three times, the priest visibly backing away from the screen that separates us. "No god would allow a world like ours exist. He would have wiped us away long ago, or changed us utterly."

  "My child," he began, very soft, gentle, careful, obviously trying to avoid provoking me further. "There is evil in the world, that much is certain. But where there is evil, there is a battle being waged. The Lord wishes the best fo
r his children, and nothing but the best, but he cannot and will not affect their free will."

  "Free will?" I ask incredulously.

  "We are all free to decide our fate, to choose our path, and while God may guide us and hopes for us to choose righteousness, he cannot force our hand."

  "And where is God when a child is born in poverty and is forced to see his parents waste away from famine and disease, then his siblings be forced into being warriors against an enemy he doesn't know or understand, brainwashed into believing they are evil and worthy of death? What choice did God give that child? What would God have that boy do?"

  I was fuming, ranting, angry at the world, angry at God, both for failing to help and failing to exist, a dichotomy I had no will to reconcile.

  The priest, showing astonishing patience, takes a deep breath and softly, gently, "my son, I do not claim to know what God intends for all men. His ways are mysterious and hidden from even those who seek most fervently to understand. As the deepest mysteries of the universe are locked behind science not yet found, there is a purpose to all that God has brought, even if we cannot see it or understand it."

  "But why-"

  "We cannot know!" His voice is anxious now, hoping, dearly, that he can make me comprehend. I almost feel bad for him; I don't know anymore what I expected from coming here. I don't know what I'm doing, I don't know why I'm doing this...

  What am I doing?

  Why am I here?

  "My child, we can only-"

  "Father!" I interrupt, my voice failing.

  "Yes, my son?"

  "I'm sorry," I mutter. "I don't know why I'm saying the things I'm saying, I don't believe them," I lie. "I'm just angry... So very angry... And all I want is peace and happiness, and I am willing to do anything to find it. Even come here, to my childhood church, and yell at a priest who has been nothing but kind to me." And I chuckle slightly, baffled at my lunacy.

  "You are always welcome in God's house, my child." He leans to the mesh between us. "Always."

  "Thank you, Father," I cry.

  "I will pray for you, my child."

  "I appreciate that, Father."

  He takes a deep, slow, long breath and then he presses his fists against the mesh. "Is there anything else I can do for you, my child?"

  "No, Father. Thank you."

  Outside the confessional, I stop and look up at the back of the church. Moonlight is pouring in through stained glass windows that are resting majestically atop a massive column of concrete. It softens the Gothic look of the almost entirely gray structure and gives it a life and breath, a glorious shadow of red, blue and yellow across rows of mahogany pews.

  I cough, ruining the experience.

  Before departing, I head to the votive display, grab a match from a community bowl and light three candles in succession, one for Frank, one for Jason and one for the boy I never named and never knew.

  I'm crying as I walk outside, for home...

  "Good morning, Max!" The voice of my doctor, back in the void; a voice I hear so rarely first, and even less often alone.

  Where is Jenny?

  "How are we this morning?"

  Famished.

  My stomach is in agony...

  "Looks like it's just you and me this morning."

  Why?

  Where is my wife? My son?

  "Your vitals are actually pretty strong for a man who hasn't had any nourishment in a couple weeks."

  I'd kill for a hamburger...

  "I'm gonna miss seeing you every morning."

  Really?

  "I'd never admit it to anyone that can hear me, but I like seeing you each morning." I hear a beep, a dial being turned; he's doing something to my life sustaining machinery. "As a doctor, you get a little attached to your patients. You're not supposed to, of course, but we all do. You want to see them get better, get healthy and go home."

  I wish I could go home...

  "I hate that I couldn't help you, Max."

  I know you did what you could.

  "Of course, you don't care. It must be quite a way to live without beta waves." He chuckles softly. I don't understand why. "To exist, but not have a care in the world. Not even the ability to know what a care is, what's around you, what you're missing. I can't even imagine it." And then another chuckle. "Of course, I suppose that's the point, you couldn't imagine."

  If only he knew...

  "If I thought you could feel, I would never be okay with what we're doing to you. I know what dying of starvation does to a person, and it is incredibly unpleasant." Oh, don't tell me that... "Even as you are, I wish I could legally just send you on your way."

  Kill me?

  "I wonder if you'd want me to do that for you. I wonder if you'd want to be allowed to die."

  I don't want to die!

  "You didn't leave a living will, so your wife is just doing what she thinks is best for you, but frankly I think she's just been worried about herself all these years." Herself? "I mean, it is her money and she can spend it however she pleases, but I know how expensive hospitalizations such as this can be. She must be broke by now."

  Broke? You think she's broke?

  "I'm sure you wouldn't want to leave her like that, with nothing. Hopefully your boy can help her out if things get tough, especially with the funeral."

  Funeral?

  I don't know why, but I hadn't considered that I would be the main showcase in a funeral soon. Even believing that death is final, I imagine how odd it would be to watch (or listen?) to those I love, those I like, and those I care nothing for but feel obligated, croon over my lifeless pile of meat.

  I hope the flowers are beautiful.

  "I hope she doesn't watch you die, Max."

  Watch me die?

  "Even unable to move or squirm or appear in pain, it won't be fun to watch that monitor go flat, knowing your body was, finally, shutting down. No wife should have to see that. That's for the doctor, the one who shouldn't care, overseeing an operating table, trying to keep the heart beating."

  I don't want her to watch me die...

  I don't want to hear her cry...

  "You know, the first time I ever had to inform a family that a loved one had died was only a few weeks after I first started working here."

  What happened?

  "I was assisting Dr. Osman remove a nickel sized tumor that was resting on the brain stem of this surprisingly fit middle aged man. I don't know why, I shouldn't be, but I'm always surprised when I see a healthy man battling cancer. It just doesn't seem right."

  I suppose everyone is susceptible...

  "Anyway, the procedure was risky. I knew going into the operating room that there was a chance I would be leaving it one man short. But I didn't focus on that. It was only my sixteenth surgery and I wanted to be the hero, to save the man's life."

  I wish you had.

  "But I didn't. He went into cardiac arrest and died on the table. I remember standing there, looking down at a man that I had spoken with just a few hours before- I actually talked with him, told him what we were going to be doing, the risks, the potential benefits. He looked so terrified, but at the same time reassured by what I was saying. Everyone always seems reassured by what I say..." He takes a deep breath and exhales slowly and loudly. "And now he was on my table, not talking, never to talk again."

  Never talk again...

  "I walked out into the waiting room, and his whole family- wife, two daughters, a son, and his mother- I think his father was passed- they were looking at me with this... hope... this i
mpenetrable aura of hope, like they were so certain that I could only give them good news. The mother, I remember, was furiously rubbing a crucifix."

  God never saves the most deserving...

  "And I stood there, struck by complete silence. I had... no words. I had no preparation, nothing to say to them, and no way to ease the inevitable pain, a pain that I was going to be supplying."

  Must not have been fun.

  "The mother was the first to guess. I saw her face go from hope, to terror, to pain and acceptance. And then she just... let go..."

  Let go?

  "No inhibitions. Not a care in her whole world for what might be prim and proper. Not knowing who was watching her, seeing her breakdown. She just... fell apart. Fell to her knees, wailing into her hands."

  Poor woman...

  "The rest of the family just stood there, with hope still in their eyes. I think they believed their mother was... overreacting. Jumping to conclusions. After all, I hadn't spoken yet. Who knew what I was going to say to them?"

  No one likes to deliver bad news.

  "But I never said anything. I just sighed and put my hands on my hips, and when I looked down at the floor, everyone understood. I never had to speak; my body told the story, and they knew."

  Must have been awful...

  "The wife collapsed, just as the mother. That was what I expected, so I was braced for it, the two of them, on the floor. But the kids... I was completely unprepared for the kids. The image of those kids... it stays with me, even today."

  What happened?

  "They just... stood there. Looking at me. Saying nothing... Just... looking."

  They were in shock.

  "The oldest, the son, he had this... look. Total and absolute disbelief, like he was certain that I was lying. Then he got angry. Not at me, of course, he didn't threaten me or anything, but still angry. Angry at the world, at his father, at his hysterical mother and grandmother... Even angry at nothing. I'd never seen that kind of anger before."

  I have...

  "The youngest, little brunette girl, was the worst of it. She never moved, just stood there, almost motionless, very softly crying. Not sobbing, no despair, just a quiet cry, as though she knew what had happened but wasn't about to really internalize it, make it real."