Life Unbothered

by Charlie Elliott

  I counted out thirty-five Morphine pills and carefully lined them up on the bed stand. I was procrastinating, recounting the little white circles of death situated in rows of five across and seven deep. There was no particular reason I arrived at thirty-five pills, it just seemed like enough to do the job—though there were over eighty left in the large plastic bottle.

  Sophia remained supine on the bed with her eyes half-opened, almost relaxed, at peace with herself. I noticed her lucky red bandana hung loosely around her neck, which she must have affixed while I was pacing around the apartment in between assertions of finality. I stared once again at pictures of her displayed on the bedroom wall, attesting that all remaining pleasurable life was stripped from her.

  I wiped a clammy hand across my forehead as I went into the kitchen and poured water into an oversized plastic cup. I took a couple of swigs, noticing how the apprehension made it hard to swallow the large gulps as the water creased my throat. Before returning to the bedroom, I closed my eyes thinking I was going to pray, but the only the words uttered were: Time to do it.

  “Honey, you’re going to have to sit up to take these.”

  Sophia’s eyes widened as she pushed her weak arms down on the mattress to prop herself against the wall. Her right arm failed to bear any of her weight. I pulled under her armpits to help, noticing her swollen right shoulder from the mishap when I had tried to clean her the week before. The remaining cartilage around the area felt mushy to my conscientious touch.

  “Put your arms down to your sides,” I instructed, while carefully nudging both her arms next to her hips until she was almost sitting on her hands. “I’ll put the pills in your mouth and feed you the water. That way, you had nothing to do with your death. I don’t want you leaving this world by your own hand.”

  I flashed back to the morning in Arizona when I had a gun to my head, irrationally believing I should die. I couldn’t even imagine at the time I would be in a similar situation, except now I was theoretically the gun. It was a horrible recollection, but I was thankful to be amongst the living. I felt fortunate to have fallen in love with Sophia, though I knew whether naturally or induced, she would die soon.

  Her blank eyes followed me as I sat next to her. There was feeling beaming from them, but she didn’t have the energy left to show it with any conviction. She pushed a deliberate breath out her nose as I rubbed my hand across her left cheek.

  “Ready?”

  “I love you,” she said with no expression.

  “I love you too,” my shaking voice returned as I kissed her blistered lips.

  “I’m ready,” she said.

  I methodically put one column of seven pills into my palm and lifted them to her already open mouth. After sliding the pills from my hand to her tongue, I grabbed the large plastic cup of water and tipped it toward her mouth. She labored to swallow as water flooded down her chin and soaked a corner of her faded red bandana before seeping slowly into her black t-shirt.

  I repeated the process five times without a break until Sophia ingested all thirty-five pills. The activity, performed in total silence, seemed to happen in a matter of a second or two. The deed was done, no turning back now.

  I removed her water-spotted shirt and carefully pulled the loosely tied bandana from around her neck. She grabbed my hand when I was about to leave the side of the bed to get her a clean shirt.

  “Keep this with you,” she said, grabbing the red bandana lightly. “You may need it.”

  I untied the knot in the back and straightened the fabric out. I folded it into a small square and stuffed the bandana in my left front pocket, the same pocket that used to hold my medication before Sophia ridded me of the habit.

  “I’ll keep your lucky bandana with me,” I said.

  I walked to the closet to get a gray sweatshirt of mine she liked to wear. When I came back to the bed, Sophia had resumed staring straight ahead.

  “Lie down and go to sleep now,” I told her as the clean sweatshirt dragged over her upper body. “I’ll be right here with you when the parade arrives.”

  “Will it be a nice parade?” Sophia asked without blinking her eyes.

  “It’ll be the most beautiful parade in the world.”

  I snuggled next to her and wrapped my right arm around her stomach. She closed her eyes. I couldn’t close mine—I was wide awake worrying about what was going to happen, how long it would take, and if there would be any complications. My fatigued mind raced as I waited for Sophia to step through to the inevitable.

  29. Expiration

  I remained by Sophia’s side with my arm draped across her. Every breath she executed seemed to pound in me as if I were somehow connected to her physiology.

  After ten minutes, I couldn’t handle touching her any longer. I sat up on the side of the bed and curled in what resembled a seated fetal position. Wrapping my arms tightly around my stomach, I rocked my upper body in small, praying bobs.

  Within fifteen minutes after taking the thirty-five Morphine pills, Sophia’s irregular breathing labored even more. Wheezing and gurgling, there was a moist sound in her exhalations due to the liquid slowly creeping up her lungs as it no longer had any other place to go in her swollen lower body. I arose from the bed and began pacing around the apartment frenzied and scared, not knowing when Sophia was going to die. Busy tasks helped my body move, alleviating the perceived turmoil of what was happening in the next room. I combed my hair, washed my hands, and looked in the dryer to find a clump of unfolded clothes. My stomach drew inward as I contemplated pulling out the ironing board to tend to the dried clothes. I shrugged off the temptation and started methodically folding the clothes with my trembling hands, waiting for Sophia to expire. I wanted to be next to her as she drifted off to heaven, but I was so edgy, so wired and tired at the same time, I just couldn’t sit for too long. There was no sign of the familiar panic, except for all the physical symptoms—shortness of breath, dizziness, detachment—but not the same racing self-absorbed thoughts as usual. It seemed to be justified, a whirl of intelligent panic. Sophia was dying, by my hand, and it had crossed the point of not being able to reverse what I had done.

  After folding the clothes, I noticed the pile was out of kilter—shirts folded sloppily, towels uneven, and pants not creased in their correct places. Not a good job of folding, but the chore was merely an attempt to keep moving. And to my horror, only ten minutes had elapsed during the task.

  I forced myself back into the bedroom. Sophia was in the same position on her back with her mouth agape. Her wheezing had transformed into a hissing sound, louder and more pronounced than before. I sat at the end of the bed with my back turned to her and rested my left hand by her feet. It took all my strength to remain there. I felt I needed to touch her, so I gripped my hand on her motionless right foot. Having some physical contact was important to me, but I couldn’t bear to lie next to her and feel her body go through its last heaves.

  I remained at the end of the bed, hand on her foot, turning around occasionally to study her face. The last look I gave her, she opened her left eye slightly. It was like she knew I was watching.

  “There’s music in my stomach,” she gurgled in such a soft voice, I could barely make out the words.

  Time seemed to stand still at that point as I turned away from Sophia and closed my eyes. My mind deafened as all things shut out of my perceptions. I felt sealed in an isolated box hurled into the blackest depths of the universe. There was nothing: no meaning, no physical structure, no time—nothingness. I heard her last words repeatedly play in my mind, engraining them forever into my subconscious. I never wanted to forget her voice.

  Then, without any intense struggle or a dramatic hurling last guttural breath, the noise stopped—a prosaic cease of life. I sat with my eyes closed for a minute more before turning around. I focused on Sophia’s chest area for a long time, waiting for some indication of
another breath. There was no movement. My left hand released from her foot as I stepped to the side of the bed and placed my right index finger on her neck to check her pulse—nothing.

  I covered Sophia’s body to her shoulders with the bed sheet, situated her head on the pillow and closed her mouth to give her the appearance of sleeping comfortably. The task seemed to elapse in slow motion as I really didn’t know how to feel or act. I recalled the list I compiled earlier and retrieved the folded and tattered piece of paper from my wallet as a guide.

  1. Kiss Sophia

  2. Call Hospice

  3. Call Relatives

  * * * *

  Sophia’s mom, her Aunt Beatrice, and Aunt Marlene arrived a half-hour after I called. It was a solemn gathering, all four of us just stared at Sophia’s body, commenting on how peaceful she looked. They didn’t know I had fed her an overdose of Morphine. Sophia and I would retain that secret.

  Contrasting emotions swirled within as my exhausted body still seethed with adrenaline, even though I didn’t need it anymore. Barbara, along with Sophia’s two aunts, insisted I go and get some rest, perhaps at my parents’ house, while they waited for the mortuary to take Sophia away. Even though my body needed a break, I didn’t want to rest—nor could I if I tried. I did agree to get away, though I felt guilty about leaving. I had to accept that wherever I went, Sophia’s body would be gone when I returned. As I gathered my keys and wallet, I told the ladies I wanted to spend a few moments alone with Sophia. I walked into the bedroom, closing the door gently behind me.

  I approached Sophia’s lifeless body, knelt beside the bed, and rested my elbows on the mattress. I clasped my hands together and dropped them gently until they were resting on her rib bones.

  “Sophia, thank you for the life you breathed back into me,” I whispered. “You are the reason I discovered love, happiness with another person, and the calm of togetherness. You asked little from me, but gave yourself fully. You taught me how to deal with my panic and resurrected the good feelings I extinguished long ago. I hope I gave you something positive in return during the limited time allowed us. You helped me more than you’ll ever know. Thank you. I love you.”

  I kissed her on the lips, noticing her skin had already grown cold. Our last kiss. A strange feeling overcame me as I walked out of the bedroom. It was a sliver of peace combined with a powerful sensation of personal well-being. I didn’t understand the reaction, but in an odd way, it felt stimulating. When I rejoined Barbara, Marlene and Beatrice in the living room, all three were looking at me, as if waiting in anticipation for a miraculous declaration, like Sophia had been resurrected and her cancer was eradicated.

  “Thank you, all of you, for your help,” I said.

  Beatrice neared me, her magnified eyes beaming through her thick glasses. “You are an angel,” she said. Her aging hand stroked my cheek.

  “Angels have wings, and they can fly. I have neither.”

  The three women smiled courteously, though I could read the confusion on their faces from my statement.

  “You get some rest now,” Barbara said.

  “Okay, I will. Thank you again.”

  It was hard to comprehend all that had occurred— Sophia, cancer, death. As I walked outside, I pondered for a moment where to go at two o’clock in the afternoon on New Year’s Eve. I wasn’t hungry, I wouldn’t be able to fall asleep if I tried, and I didn’t want to get drunk or alter my mind in any way. On the slow walk to my car, I noticed my perception of the landscape had changed. Colors were brighter, a few hibiscus plants I passed had the most vibrant red flowers I had ever seen. The wind ruffling the leaves on the trees was playing a melody that sounded like water tumbling down a rocky river. The air felt different against my skin. The shifting breeze pricked against the hair on my arms, creating a flowing sensitivity equivalent to being underwater. These perceptions, accentuated by fatigue, gave me no concern. I let the present moment lapse, out of my control. Above, I saw four crows flying, their long beaks pointing to the next landing spot against a cloudless sky. My mind adrift in shock and exhaustion, I imagined myself amongst those freely soaring birds, all of us windswept and searching out a landing place—a destination. That’s what I needed, a destination. But there was no place to go. I looked back up at the airborne crows as they fluttered their wings to land on a distant rooftop. If they could find a destination, so could I. With all the stimuli adrift around me, an impulse popped into my head, one that was not greeted with the usual negative mental backtalk. I pulled my phone out of my back pocket, opened an app and clicked a few times to find what I needed. After the purchase was complete, I walked a couple of slow steps just outside the front door before hastening the pace to my car, determined to carry out my new mission.

  30. Getting Air

  I made it to Terminal 1 at Los Angeles International Airport after what seemed like a mile walk from a parking structure located in the middle of the expansive travel hub. I didn’t dwell on any morbid thoughts during the ride to the airport. My mind let things flow in and out. I focused on Sophia and all the good things that came about from us being together. She was no longer here, but I tried to push the fact away as I drove. The one definitive decision was deciding on my destination. It would be San Diego via Festival Airways. San Diego for two reasons: it was a short flight, and I wanted to make good on the proposal Dr. Crouch brought forth eight months earlier in one of our sessions—only without a million dollars at stake.

  LAX was bustling with travelers returning from holiday vacations, while others were heading off somewhere for New Year’s. My senses were reacting much differently than the last time I was at the airport with Richard and Mundo. I wasn’t terrified or obsessing about the impending flight. My body was floating through a dream on autopilot, leading me to the sky. As my ears registered the horns of impatient drivers echoing under the cement-framed concourse and the squeaks of wheels from people dragging their wobbly luggage, my mind was numb to the sights and sounds of the assemblage of controlled humanity. As I passed through the glass doors that led to the ticketing area, I failed to be concerned that Festival Airways had banned me for life from their flights after the botched trip to Las Vegas. When I purchased the ticket online outside my apartment, no alarms or blocks popped up on my phone when I input my name. I had replaced my old Arizona driver’s license with one from California, so the license number on file with Festival was obsolete, and hopefully the license holder was a different person entirely from the one who took that fateful flight. With the exception of my name, the old information they had would be incorrect. Even if the airline kept lists like those of casinos tracking card counters, the challenge of sneaking on a flight from an airline I was banned from brought on the only twinge of anxiety—but I no longer cared enough to let that cerebral fireball cultivate within my body. I felt fortunate there was a seat available for the impromptu flight at such a short notice and as a bonus, the price was not overly inflated.

  Though I had no carry-on, or checked luggage for that matter, I seemed to appear as just another traveler—a normal human, identical to the rest of the people I watched scuttling about the airport. I flashed back for just a moment about the fact that I had no medication with me—an old habit trying to make an ardent comeback. The lack of medicine didn’t bother me and soon vanished from my mind. It was a peculiar sensation, one I hadn’t been accustomed to for many years. I wasn’t worried about being worried. But, like some old comedy routine, the worry about not being worried about worrying crept through my cerebral passages, trying to reinforce branded behavior. I imagined a gigantic foot crushing a bright sign that read in large letters, ‘WORRY.’ The imaging seemed to stamp out the sensation.

  Though I had a digital boarding pass on my phone, for some reason I felt it necessary to confirm I was actually booked for the flight. I stood in line and stared blankly at the ticket counter, stepping ahead slowly until a very short male ticket agent g
reeted me.

  “I have a confirmation for a flight to San Diego,” I said flatly.

  “San Diego… okay, swipe your license in the slot and press ‘Enter’ on the keyboard,” he said.

  “So, I’m confirmed?” I asked while a boarding pass shot out of the thin slot.

  The agent tipped his head and looked at his screen. “Yes, the flight leaves at ten after five. Do you need to book a return flight?”

  “No. I don’t know when I’m returning.”

  “I understand. Any luggage to check?”

  “None.”

  “Okay, you’re ready to go then.”

  Apparently, Festival Airways had not retained a record of my banishment from the Las Vegas flight, at least from the information on my license.

  “You’re in seat 20 C. Your flight departs from gate seven and will start boarding in about forty-five minutes,” he said. “Due to heightened security with tonight being New Year’s, I suggest getting over there right now.”

  “Okay,” I responded with a tight smile.

  “Happy New Year.”

  “Right.”

  The security checkpoint went without incident as I was still expecting to be pulled aside, banished from the flight. After the full-body scan, about ten minutes remained before the plane started boarding, so I stood inconspicuously in an isolated corner of the terminal and watched people. I wondered if anyone was watching me, or if there were any travelers who could discern that someone I loved had just passed away, and I aided in her death. Or if any of them understood how momentous it was for me to be boarding a plane, or if they knew I had found love only for a few months before it was snatched away. The people in the terminal all seemed so unaffected by being cooped up in an aluminum tube for hours suspended above solid ground. Flying to them was as easy as jumping in their cars to pick up milk at the corner market. Their flights were to deliver them to a physical destination quickly and easily without pharmaceuticals or someone named Dr. Travel.