One Last Day

I was inspired by a song by NickleBack to write this short story.

John heard the faint sound that he'd heard only a few moments before and
knew that someone else was now opening that same door he'd opened.

It wasn't a creaking, or a squeaking that doors might normally make.  It
was a soft sound, almost a whisper, as the little brush, attached to
the bottom to help insulate, rubbed on the floor as the door swung
slowly into the room.

The Iranian soldiers weren't likely to hear it.  Unlike, John, they
weren't trained to hear it.  But, John did hear it and knew he was
certain to be found in the immediate future.

It wasn't something you were necessarily trained to do.  It wasn't
something you ever thought about actually doing.  It was simply
something you had to do.  It was your responsibility just as much as
keeping a secret about the information you were collecting.

John felt for that small knot under the skin of his left forearm.  In
that brief moment that seemed an eternity, John remembered feeling it
constantly the first month or so it was there.  He remembered how
careful he'd been about it, and how he'd worried every time that part
of his body had been hit, squeezed, or even bumped.

But now, he worried about how hard it might be to actually squeeze the
tiny insert enough to break it open so the contents could do their
duty.

John heard the footsteps nearing the small closet he'd taken sanctuary
in.  He pinched the skin on both sides of the small knot on his arm and
squeezed as hard as he could, instantly feeling the knot crush under
his power.

It was over.  He only had about a day, one more sunrise and one more
sunset, to endure whatever the Iranian authorities might inflict on
him.  He could handle that.

The steps were getting fainter now, not closer.  That sound again, that
swishing, that only he had heard.  They were gone.

‘My arm,' John felt for the knot that was no longer there, ‘no going
back now', John thought and without regret, knowing he'd only done what
he had to do in the situation he finished his thought, ‘what do I want
to do today?”

But John knew already.  He'd never really thought this moment would
come, but like he had immediate action plans for most things, he had
made one for this scenario as well.

As John hurried out of the dirty building and into the dark streets of
Masshad he knew his final destiny.  He'd planned this out in detail
years ago when his friend from high school and college had died so
young from AIDs.  His friend who'd helped him with his studies so many
times.  His friend who'd been made fun of relentlessly, yet never hated
his adversaries and always seemed to understand and forgive them.

John remembered their last conversation that day at the hospital.  John
remembered them joking about their plan of injecting congress with the
virus in order to get the research money.

And, John thought about how he'd modified that plan to a more realistic
version that just might work.

It was easier negotiating an unfriendly environment when you had nothing
to lose and John made good time getting back to his room.

It was really a quite simple plan.  He took the time to have a last
shower, shave, and even apply some cologne that he carried, but seldom
was able to wear.  It was a special day, after all, not unlike a
special date with a special friend.

John looked at himself in the cracked mirror over the dirty dresser and
adjusted his tie just right.  He opened his sport coat just enough to
see the specially crafted tranquilizer rifle, then let it fall back
together to see that there were no signs that rifle was there.

John opened his notebook one last time and looked at the address of the
candidate for this particular part of the world.  How odd, he thought
to himself, that it would be so conveniently close.  Two blocks, maybe
three.

John reached down and picked up the envelope and placed it in his jacket
pocket.  The envelope was just large enough that it didn't go quite in
and was obvious to anyone looking at him.

Inside, John knew, were pamphlets from the top research institutions
currently doing AIDs research.

As John stepped into the street he noticed the first hints of light in
the east.  He smiled, stepped out to the middle of the street, and just
stood there for almost thirty minutes watching as the sky began to
change from the dark he'd learned to appreciate for it's ability to
conceal, to light.  A light that he'd almost forgotten how beautiful
could actually be.  More than just light, but colors, beautiful colors,
colors so long forgotten.

‘Not a bad last sunrise.'  John smiled as he thought, then the smile
diminished as he also thought that he'd need to forego his last sunset.

It was almost too easy.  The guards were drinking coffee and his target
had come out to enjoy the beautiful morning with them.  Watching the
group it was difficult to comprehend that one of them was one of the
wealthiest men in the world.

John knew exactly how close he needed to be and walked, quickly, if
casually to the desired location.  Without any hesitation, or warning
of any kind, John opened his jacket, let the short rifle snap into his
well trained hands, and fired the perfect shot.

John knew it was senseless to run.  He smiled at his executioners and
felt the first invasion of his body.  He smiled as he thought of his
dear friend and wondered if his friend was here, waiting to welcome him
into some unknown domain.

John kept smiling as he felt other, more rapid, invasions of his body.

Had his existence here counted?  He pondered that last question as his
pain turned to darkness.

Reviews

[Sarah]

Interesting, but it seems like your character is removed from what he's doing, even though it's an experience that doesn't get more personal. Like the idea, not so sure about the execution of that idea.

[cloister]

In terms of the writing, I found this piece to be very emotionally distanced from its main character, which is a shame since the situation he's in is so fraught with inherent drama. Yet, you've written it in a very clinical style which pushes that drama away, keeps it at arm's length. It keeps the piece from being as compelling as it could be because it doesn't strongly engage the reader's emotions.

In terms of the plot, I wasn't convinced about the story's premise. Having some sort of suicide capsule embedded in your arm is a fine setup, but only if the character truly uses it only as a last resort. When truly "in extremis." I didn't feel like John was actually in such unredeemable peril that he needed to pop the capsule. Consider: he is hiding from the Iranians. He has done his best in the circumstances to conceal himself, to take refuge. Why bother to hide at all unless you feel that there's a chance they won't find you? And if you feel there's a chance you'll escape--as, in fact, happens--then why pop the capsule? Wouldn't you wait, fingers poised for the lethal pinch, until the very moment that the Iranians throw open the door and shout in Arabic "I've found him! Here he is! On the floor, Yankee dog!" (or whatever they'd say)?

If it was you, wouldn't you wait until they actually found you before taking such an irrevocable act as activating your suicide capsule? I sure as hell would.

That's the problem. It doesn't feel necessary, yet, for him to do that. Yet he does. It undercuts the premise of the story.

I think perhaps a better opening would be to let the Iranians find him. Thinking his number is definitely up, _then_ John can do the deed. And thus, having literally nothing left to lose, John figures he might as well fight and take as many of them down as he can. With the fury of a dead man walking, John manages to drop the first guy, get his gun, and when all is said and done he has taken them all out. Now he has, beyond his wildest imagination, escaped capture. But he's still doomed, so now he gets to ponder what to do with his last day. The rest of the story can unfold from there.

I mention this because it's something I see all too often: in the rush to establish a story's premise, in the rush to get the ball rolling, writers so often do so in a way that isn't credible and thus doesn't _sell_ the premise itself. The good news is that, as in your case, usually there's a reasonably easy fix at hand. Make sure your premise is solid, that it's believable and feels unavoidably necessary, and the rest of the story immediately becomes that much more credible too.

[Ama May Cooper]

A very interesting piece. It seems aalittle rushed but it is a very good story all the same. i have heard the song you speak of adn i like your take on its lyriks and yoru storyline was very well thought out.
Have you ever considered righting longer pieces?