the Sealed Fate of Him

Is being told your death date worse than knowing that you will die with in the next 12 months, somewhere somehow? This was the question he pondered as he left the rectangular room that was not the end of the road, a road he may have missed, but a road he sealed for himself on the night he thought would be his last. He had thought not knowing when, where, and with whom he were going to die with, would have been the worst thing ever when he first heard his prognosis. But now, knowing exactly when, where, and with whom he was going to die, with his children away but knowing exactly why he died would be worse. The scene shifted.

I am standing behind him, the distinct odor of a doctor’s office cleaning agent penetrating and stinging my nose. Suddenly he notices the doctor in front of him, “Your tests came back positive, Daniel. You know what this means.” Dr. Strat looked right into his eyes without blinking, but with a look of hopelessness. “I told you before,” he continued, but to him his voice and face were incomprehensible, ”that this might happen, and that it was very likely. I am very sad for your family, and you especially. You most likely have questions, and I will help you.”

Looking up again, he asked the cliché question, “How much time, doctor? How much time?”

“Twelve months at the longest. I suggest you go home, tell your family, and put your affairs in order.” The scene melted away.

A new scene materializes. Daniel is lying on the bed, warm and soft. His wife, Joule walks in. He has not told her but she knows. She looks down; registering the pain he must be feeling, knowing that their days are now counted. numbered? Clicking and clicking like a clock, one click at a time, counting the seconds, minutes, hours, days.

        For the first time that night Daniel looks up, his eyes watering. One tear falls, but he knows many more shall come. He had never before noticed how nice his wife was. How perfect, how kind, how….

The scene changes, the leaves are turning brown, having fallen from their parent trees. In the distance he hears a chain saw. Looking outside he notices his neighbor cutting down the old fern that provided their privacy.

“The f**k,” he mutters to himself. They had taken his animals, his apple tree, and now they were taking his privacy. A bunch of middle-aged p*****s he thought of them. Lying dirty p*****s. They claimed everything within their fenced area was theirs, and it would have been true, if they had not asked the builder to build on his side of the line, enclosing his pigs, his apple tree, and his fern.

He sits at the table with his children, seeing nothing more than fear in their eyes. He feels sad and no longer deserving of being their father, as he is about to die. The scene changes.

In the bedroom again, Joul looks down, at Daniel her eyes again in tears. She knows he will need time to sort things out on his own. He needs time to accept that he is about to leave this world. But why, she wonders, does he have to now. Now that their time is limited.

He stands in the driveway waving good bye for possibly the last time, a pain in his heart about what he is about to do.

Sitting down at the computer he brings up his life's saving.

“Damn,” at only 24, it is not enough. It had not been enough time. He was still short money. How could Joul, who had never had to lift a finger to work, be expected to live off the small amount he was going to leave her? It wasn’t enough. He had paid thousands and thousands trying to win his land back, his property, his dignity from his neighbors. This was entirely their fault; they were going to pay him back.

A perfect night, almost pitch black. He lies outside on the hammock waiting. Waiting, and waiting. A car rumbles down the road and he knows it's time. Picking up his duffle bag, he slips down the steps of his house.  He had made some calls comma heard what he needed, and prepared. Blood rushes through his veins as he walks, and every step filled with hate and cold determination.

        Knock, knock, knock. Seconds pass and he knocks again. This time hearing steps coming.

        The door creaks open, and a face pokes out. He lifts his machete and waltzes into the house. The man looks at the machete and opens his mouth. But instead of screaming he falls silent. The warm trickle falls down his arm, he is cut. “Not a goddamn word,” he breathes,  “show me upstairs.”

        The man moves in a trancelike state up the stairs. The air smells of misfortune and death.

        He walks into the bedroom, man in tow.

He throws the duffle bag on to the bed, and  woman stirs, the wife. He flicks the machete, and lets her see the gash on her husband's arm. She nods.

        “Take out my laptop from the duffle bag,” he orders. She nods again and proceeds. “Now come over here.”

        Obliging, she walks over and kneels down, apparently hoping that she is no longer in danger.  False. An arc of red sprays the colorless walls. And she is dead. The job is half done.

        Turning on the husband, he orders with no remorse in his voice, “now open the laptop, and a window will be up, transfer every cent you have to my bank off shore, and lie on the bed after. Not a word.”

        Moving almost snail pace, the man empties his accounts and looks up at him,

“I have nothing left to give.”

        “So now you know what it feels like, to lose everything one by one.” He looks down at the man, “now lie on the bed, take off your clothes and prepare for the worst part of death. Humiliation, handing over the last belonging you have to your murderer, a dying clothless, with literally nothing.”

        Another arc of blood splatters the walls. The man, the neighbor, is dead. Penniless, and dead.

The next day the wife and children come home, and are pleased that their father did not pass away during the night. He smiles, as he transfers the money he received the last night into an account to be owned by his wife when he dies. No matter if the police found out later. The dead neighbors possessive apo family had no relatives, and no friends. The money would stay with his wife, and his children would be cared for. She would never have known, so she would not have been an accomplice. The scene changes.

Police are investigating outside their neighbors house. After a nervous shop owner had not noticed them in town for spell out 2 weeks, CS he had called the police to check on the couple.

The phone rings and Daniel takes a breath. “Hello?”

“Hi, Daniel, it's Dr. Strat, ”The doctor's voice is cheerful. “I have good news for you. It seems as if the lab tech misplaced your report with another's, and your test was negative. You only had a …” Daniel shuts the phone, before Dr. Stat had even finished.

“Oh, s**t.”

Daniel looks up at the bench. a man sits there, holding either his pardon or his death order, signed by twelve people.

        “Guilty as charged, on two counts of aggravated murder in the second degree, two counts of assault, and one count of grand theft . Sentenced to death, by the 12th of October 2014.”

The fate that had been so sealed, then reopened, had just been sealed again.

“Bang”, and the gavel goes down.

␥␥

From behind him, I stood. I would never see his face, but always the back of his head. Watching a dream neither mine, nor another's. Watching his recollection of the events, but through my own eyes, behind him. Feeling every emotion he felt, and every sense he should have felt, yet with my own body.

Lucid dreams are as they are, terrible and real, but only to the dreamer. A nightmare may be inflicted with murder scenes and false sense of blood trickling down the dreamer’s throat. Yet also a dream of graduating may make the dreamer imagine in the most real way a pat on the back. This is a story of murder, pain, and regret. And it also one of many reasons people must think before they act.