The Man Who Watched The World End

by Dietzel, Chris

  Something inside me wants someone new to share these things with. Is that human nature? If I suddenly did have new people in my life, would I crave different people as soon as I had once again exhausted my stories with the people around me? If Andrew passed away, would I have a make-believe version of him that appeared in my thoughts to keep me company? And if this is the case, why aren’t I out in the living room talking to him right now instead of muttering and typing? Something has to take my mind off the animals that intrude on our property. Something needs to take my mind off our house, which is falling apart while we still call it home.

  There is the dog, but even he reminds me of my predicament. That dumb animal could probably read me for a sucker from a mile away.

  qlsedo “Look at that old man,” it was probably telling its friends. “I’m going to go on his patio and he’s going to give me water every day, just because he’s lonely.”

  “No way!” the rest of his pack would say.

  “Oh yes,” the dog would say, a canine grin spread from one side of fangs to the other.

  “No human is silly enough to befriend a dog anymore,” the other dogs would say. “Those days are long gone.”

  “Oh yeah? You sit and watch. And you know what? I’ll even get him to pet me like humans used to.”

  February 8

  My dreams with the dog kept occurring night after night. It was only normal that I developed a kinship with the animal, even if the relationship I nurtured was based upon dreams and from outdated ideas of how man and animal could get along. It knows me as the thing that gives it water; it has no idea I dream about it every night or that I share a bond with it because it talks to me when no one else can. Looking back, I guess I can understand why it was puzzled when I opened my patio door earlier today after it had arrived for water. Hindsight being 20/20, I should have seen that it was a bad idea. Whether it was because I’m alone or because of what I saw at the Johnsons’ house, I didn’t act the way I normally would—with caution. It’s clear as day now that I should have stayed on one side of the glass door and it on the other side.

  Not trusting me, it backed away at first, prepared to flee at any sign of danger. I stood in the open doorway. We stared at each other like that for a while. Then it blinked. Once our tense stare-down was broken it remembered the water and its daily habit kicked in. When the dish was half empty, its head rose and looked at me again. I was still in the same spot. This calmed the dog, and it seemed to begin trusting me. I started talking to it then.

  “Hello, little guy… are you okay?… What did you do for water before I started leaving it here for you?”

  It didn’t answer back the way it had in my dreams, but it also didn’t growl. The dog simply stayed. It stayed like dogs used to stay when they were pets, staring at me as if waiting to be given the okay to move again. If I’d had a milk bone in my hand I would have whistled, and the dog would have eaten it out of my palm.

  That was probably why I did what I did next: I stepped forward and joined the animal on my deck.

  I offered reassurances to soothe the dog’s nervousness. “It’s okay, little guy. I’m your friend. I give you water. I’m your friend.”

  It stayed where it was. It had some brambles caught in the thick part of its fur. I reached down to pet its head and stroke the brambles off its back. It was easy, after decades of not having a pet, to forget how to treat animals. Instead of leaving my hand out to let the dog smell me and get used to me, I reached straight for its fur.

  The Labrador wasn’t used to the idea of humans the same way I wasn’t used to the idea of pets. It didn’t even growl before its teeth were deep in my hand. As soon as it reacted, out of fright at first, its instincts—those of the woods and the pack doing what it must to survive, not those I associated with being man’s best friend—took over and it was growling furiously and throwing its head back and forth from right to left without letting go of my hand. My arm jerked every direction the dog’s mouth went.

  I cried out to Andrew for help. He remained motionless on the sofa without even looking in my direction. Pain and fear overrode any normal thoughts. I would have yelled curses if I could have formed real words; the only noises I could make were stupid and nonsensical. Finally, it let go of my hand, but only so it could lunge at me. I staggered backwards into my house. My arm must have flailed for something to grab because the next thing I knew my elbow had smacked into the patio door causing the glass to shatter. Half of the broken pane fell on the patio, the other half just inside my house.

  The noise startled the dog. Maybe it thought I was capable of giving more of a fight than it first suspected. If it did think this, it was wrong. If the dog had continued forward it could have killed me on my living room floor before moving on to Andrew, who was sitting peacefully on the sofa the whole time. More likely, it had never heard something as unnatural as glass breaking and was startled by this new kind of thunder. We faced each other from opposite sides of the broken patio door. Then it looked back at the trees and at a noise coming from somewhere in the woods. Its eyes narrowed and it turned and darted into the forest.qbsedo

  I kept looking at the woods until I was sure the dog was gone. Afterward, I stayed there a little longer to make sure something even bigger wasn’t on its way. With the woods quiet, I looked down at my hand. It was covered in blood. So were my shoes and the floor where my hand was dripping on them. I held it in my other palm and ran to the kitchen to rinse it off. Red water drained down the sink. When I squeezed my wrist blood squirted out of the giant puncture wounds. I kept squeezing because the pressure kept the water from stinging as bad as I knew it could. I wrapped a towel around it, then moved to the bathroom where the antibacterial creams were. There was no one I could see for treatment if my hand became infected. The only thing I could do was sit and tolerate the pain. I forced the white cream into the holes in my hand, but it came back out as a watery pink mixture.

  It was surprising, though, how fast the bleeding stopped once I wrapped a bandage around my palm. I expected the bandage to become stained through with red before dripping blood onto the floor, but it continued to be the same ugly beige I had started with. I flexed my fingers to make sure I still had full movement in my hand. Keep in mind, there was nothing in my life that required me to have full gesticulation. It wasn’t like I had to go back out on the mound and throw curveballs or sinkers; all I had to do was refill Andrew’s nutrient bag and clean him each day. If necessary, I could do those things with one hand. Even so, it comforted me to know I wouldn’t be handicapped.

  There was a noise at the broken patio door. Having completely forgotten the dog and the shattered glass, I quickened my pace to see what the noise could be. Andrew was still sitting on the sofa, his eyes closed. Something out of the corner of my eye moved. A cat darted out of the kitchen, trying to sneak back through the broken door. It was either a lucky shot or anger clearing my head because my shoe caught one of its back legs perfectly so the animal went flying through the air and over the deck’s handrail. Field goal! If it had bounced against the living room wall instead of out the patio door, I would have jumped on it and beaten it to death. I would have clawed at it and screamed with such rage that no other animal would ever dare come onto my patio steps again. I would have left it dead in my yard as a warning to every other beast in the forest.

  The defeated cat didn’t pause to turn and hiss at me. It bolted into the woods and disappeared. I kept screaming curses at it, taking all of my rage at the dog, the Johnsons, and the empty neighborhood out on the little cat that tried to take advantage of an opportunity to steal my food. I was lucky it chose to inspect the kitchen instead of nibbling on Andrew’s eyes or ears. I don’t know what I’d do if I went back out to the living room and one of Andrew’s eyes was hanging out of its socket while an orange and white cat purred and licked the dangling, gooey ball.

  The broken glass crackled under my shoes when I walked to where the patio door had been. Therqs aof e was a s
even-foot by three-foot opening where the glass previously kept my house closed off to the outside world. Now, wind was hitting me. Fresh air blew against my face to remind me my house was one step closer to being annexed by the forest. I stood there amongst the broken glass trying to think of a good solution for sealing it. I turned every once in a while to make sure Andrew was okay. Sometimes his eyes were open, staring blankly at the wall. Other times they were closed. If I had a big piece of plywood I could have nailed it against the door’s frame. I wouldn’t be able to look out at the forest behind my house or watch the dog’s disappointment the next time it came to find an empty water dish, but I don’t have any wood that large anyway. A plastic tarp would work to keep the wind and bugs out, but I don’t trust that it would keep a larger animal from getting in if that was what the creature wanted. There were too many horror stories as I grew up of people going camping and having a bear claw at their nylon tent. Stories like that stick in your mind forever. I wouldn’t let my house be seen by a bear as being nothing more than a luxurious tent.

  It crossed my mind that I could simply move next door or to any of the other abandoned houses in the neighborhood. They would all serve as suitable shelters just as well as our house does. It would also mean that I’d be making a hundred trips back and forth between the houses to move all of our family photos and belongings—unless I gave up on all of it and left our family history in this house. I knew I wouldn’t be able to do that. Andrew’s eyes were open again. I brushed the glass off the bottom of my shoes and took a seat next to him.

  “What should we do?” I asked him. “Should we move next door? Should we stay here?”

  We stayed on the sofa like that for a while. Another cat came up to the patio door. Upon seeing me it hissed and the fur on its back stood straight up. I hissed back even louder and more ferociously, but it was already darting off.

  “I wish you could tell me what to do,” I said to Andrew.

  I took a deep breath and said I should stop feeling sorry for myself. Andrew did not disagree with this. One by one, I took everything off the dining room table and placed each item on the floor. Then I sat on the edge of the table so it leaned in the air. It was easier to move once it was off all four legs. It more than covered the open hole to my patio. The blood and glass were still on the floor underneath and around the table. I thought about walking next door to get Mr. Lee’s patio door. It would make a perfect substitute. But the thought of taking tools to his empty house, detaching his old door without breaking it, and somehow dragging it back to my property made me cringe. I had better odds of playing eighteen holes of golf without an animal tackling me and tearing my neck open. If I was younger I would have at least tried to get the replacement door, but being old and tired, and yes, lazy, I was content with a dining room table where my old glass door had been.qbsedo

  I don’t know why I insist on staying in this house. I don’t know if it’s that I’m too stubborn for my own good or that I feel like a vital piece of me will die if I give up the way everyone else has given up. Even if my move is only one house down the street, I would be admitting I can’t live here anymore. If I confess that, I’m admitting I’m too old to take care of myself and my brother; I’m admitting I made the wrong choices; I’m admitting our last days are closer at hand than I’d guessed. I refuse to acknowledge those things.

  My own health and safety are of minor consequence—my idiocy with the dog proves that much. I refuse to give up because my brother deserves better. He deserves a brother who protects him until the end, so that’s what I’ll do.

  A week after seeing the Johnsons’ table turned into a butcher’s cutting board, my own dining room table has been transformed into a protective wall. My hand hurts like hell. The Johnsons are gone. But Andrew and I will make our way the same as we always have. A squirrel could burrow through our roof and open a new route for the animals to get in. I would have to lay poison in my attic. Maybe a pack of wolves will try tearing out the weather screen on our front door tomorrow. If that happens, more of our furniture will be used to keep the outside wildlife away as we slowly barricade ourselves from the outside world. But no matter what, we will not give up.

  My hand hurts worse and worse as the night goes on. It’s taken me twice as long to type this entry as it has the others because I’m only using my index fingers. It didn’t hurt at all right after it happened. Now, it hurts too much to curl my fingers. I’m afraid to take the bandage off to inspect the wound because I don’t want to see an infection beginning, so I leave the bandages where they are and ignore it as best I can. I thought about pouring alcohol on it the way I have always seen in old movies, but I have no idea if that would actually work. And I’m in no mood for the searing pain that the actors always let the audience know they are feeling immediately after.

  February 11Holy shit, my hand hurts. Between what happened at the Johnsons’ house, the dog’s betrayal, and the terrible pain in my hand, it hasn’t been a good couple of days. Don’t feel like writing anything else tonight.

  February 12

  Two empty bottles of wine take up space next to the kitchen trashcan. For the first time in what seems like ages, I got piss drunk last night. The Johnsons and I enjoyed glasses of wine during our dinners together, sometimes to excess, but that’s vastly different from last night’s episode of drinking for the sake of getting bombed. I’d forgotten what it was like to have a blazing headache the next morning. My forehead feels like it’s stuck in a bear’s jaws. Closing my eyes does nothing to make the pain go away, only reminds me how nauseous I feel. If there is a gold lining to my current agony, it’s that I live in a perfectly quiet house with only the hum of the power generator providing any sound. I don’t have to worry about a rambunctious little brother running into my room and waking me up just to ask how I feel after a night of drinking. I don’t have to worry about walking into the living room to find the TV turned up louder than usual, or neighbors throwing loud parties.

  Every once in a while a dog gives a blood curdling scream that makes my shoulders rise involuntarily to my jaw. No animal should ever have to make a noise like that. It’s safe to assume the animal was announcing to the rest of the forest that its time was at an end. I wonder if it was the dog that visited here each day before betraying me. That dog seems like it would be too crafty, too resourceful, to get trapped by a pack of lowly wolves.

  That dog is probably a hero to all the forest animals by now. All the other animals celebrate it as the creature that not only had the man in the last occupied house in Camelot providing it with water each day, but also ended up catching the old man when his guard was down. Whereas the cats, the court jesters of the community, came up short in their attempt, the dog was successful in its try. That damn dog is probably the president of the forest by now. All the other animals step aside when the victorious Labrador walks through the rows of trees. All the other male dogs wish they were him. All the female dogs give him googly eyes. That damn dog. God, my hand hurts. My fingers are purple.

  Although I can blame the animal for my hand, I can’t blame it for my headache. I wonder if I would even have a hangover if I was still young and had regular drinking buddies to waste time with. I looked over at Andrew sitting on the sofa while I was sloshed and thought it was only appropriate that he join me in the festivities. After all, he has to live in the same abandoned neighborhood, put up with the same leaking roof and howling animals. I put my glass of chardonnay up to his mouth and gave him a single sip. When I woke up this morning with the headache to end all headaches, I took four aspirin for myself anqheuspjod put part of a ground up aspirin in Andrew’s nutrient bag just in case he had a slight headache too. I always want to make sure he’s given the consideration he deserves even if he can’t ask for these things and probably doesn’t even recognize the need for them.

  At the same time, I wonder what kind of treatment I would get if our roles were reversed. If I was a Block and he was born normal, would Andrew go out of his w
ay to make sure I was comfortable and provided for, or would I lay on my bed every day without so much as a, “How are you doing today?” even though he knows I won’t be able to answer his rhetorical questions. Or would he sit on the sofa next to me and keep me company while the same old movies play again and again? Would he give me a sip of whatever he was drinking so I could experience it too, the way my parents took both of us to the beach when we were little even though only one of us could build sand castles and splash in the waves?

  More importantly, would I like my brother as much if I got to know the real person who’s hidden away somewhere in his head? If he suddenly broke out of his stupor tomorrow, would he give me someone to joke around with and share my concerns with, or would he be an asshole and tell me I was the least funny person he ever met. Would he leave the toilet seat down when he peed because he didn’t care if I sat in his piss? Would he function as the family I don’t have, giving me presents at Christmas and baking me a cake on my birthday, or would he be more concerned with his own life and immediately begin planning a trip to New Orleans or Miami? Would I have the same connection that I have with him now, even though all he does is sit next to me when the sun rises in the morning and sets in the evening?

  This hangover makes me think stupid thoughts. I need to go be productive. I’ll make sure Andrew isn’t lonely.

  February 14

  A scenario is constantly playing out in my head where I eventually have to watch Andrew pass away. It isn’t something I want to happen. On the contrary, it’s exactly what I’ve been fighting against my entire life. But because I’m sick more often than I used to be, not to mention feeble in my old age, I know Andrew’s time has to be coming up as well. We are linked together; what happens to one of us will most likely happen to the other. The clearest indication of that is the infected needle mark on his forearm that refuses to get better. I’ve put the nutrient bag’s IV into his arm a million times, but only recently, after nearly eighty years, is he showing the first signs of irritation since he was born. and yelled, “April Fool!”or about ve been