31. Chapter 31
Chapter thirty-one
Spawn
I've thought about the end more than I’ll ever admit.
Not just my life, but the whole of humanity and existence.
It's terrifying to know that in less than one hundred years, out of billions, all of us living today will be gone.
Only those who are born in the next few will be here to remember those who came before them.
The majority of us won't be written about. We won't exist in history books, movies, or music. Art won't be left behind, poetry will never be spoken, and memories of us will cease to exist.
How gut-wrenching it is to be forgotten.
At times, the idea of being a blip in time makes my stomach churn. What will we see when we die? Is there a pearly gate on the other side, hell fire, or plain darkness?
I wonder, sometimes, if those who preach salvation think they may be getting it all wrong.
What if they are? Maybe heaven and hell don't exist and there's nothing but blackness waiting for us.
I don't mean the absence of color or light, either.
I mean unfathomable nothingness. The same type of incomprehensible experience of imaging what one would see if they try to look out of their bony elbows or eyes parents claim they have on the back of their heads.
Try it. Think long and hard about what it would be like to watch your loved ones from your elbows. If you try to picture it, your brain will fail to conceptualize the sight. That is what's waiting for us after death. At least, that's what I think is hiding on the other side of the vail.
Perhaps I'm wrong. Maybe humans de-evolutionize. Do you remember that? Can you think back that far, to when giant lizards roamed the earth? How about when fish finally waddled out of the water and found home amongst plants and soil? Bet you a handful of Risperdal that you can't.
We didn't exist, just like we won't when we inevitably die.
Warmth and light will not be waiting for us after we take our last breath.
People use the promise of afterlife and paradise because they're afraid of what really waits for them—profound nothingness. There’s no purpose in being human.
There’s no meaning though people spend their entire lives searching for it.
I won't say that I've come to terms with it, realizing one day I’ll be gone, but the idea is there.
My body won't be high on forced chemicals solely to keep me from flying off the handle.
Swirling mini monsoons of vile and depreciating thoughts will no longer leave me in confusion or bouts of self-loathing.
Things like hunger, pain, and worry will no longer have a hold on me.
While most people see death as the worst thing that could happen to them, for me it would be a solace.
Instead, I'm confined to this bed with my arms bound to it, with no way to move without alarming someone.
My thoughts are continuously assaulted by the psychiatrist who mines through them, on the hunt for diamonds and gold.
Truthfully, being in this hospital without anything to look forward to has me focused more on the promise of oblivion.
Alright, maybe not the only thing, but it's at the top of the list.
How am I supposed to wait for something that may take years when I've been making moves for myself all my life? Hell, I've already overstayed my welcome and usefulness—that's what the demons tell me, anyway.
Society says we're not allowed to take lives, including our own, but it's mine. I own it, it's attached to me, it's been mine since day one. Why am I allowed to make final decisions regarding other property, whether disposing of it or giving it away, but I can't do the same thing with myself?
I'll tell you why—because we don't belong to ourselves.
We're cogs in a system in need of oil and care but the operator is too busy to do the maintenance.
At birth, we're given names, a number, and citizenship, effectively enslaving us to masters who have no God given right to our bodies or souls.
We're raised, put in school, sent into the world to work and hopefully do something good, give all of our money to lazy politicians, raise the next generation, sacrifice our lives to religion and cause, only to die and be forgotten.
By God, I don't want to do it. My soul's been around for far too long, felt too much, and lived too little. When you've circled the block too many times, living becomes its own type of torture.
There's a laundry list of ways I've thought about going, some more messy than others, but there's always the same outcome—release.
At times, I can feel liberation's phantom licks seducing me.
It begins at my fingertips with a tongue unapologetically coiling around my digits until it reaches the fluttering pulse below the delicate skin of my wrist.
Other days, it's a whisper. A wafer-thin murmur in the background so subtle the spoon-fed ideas feel more like your own rather than the conviction of monsters. The worst part is how bliss invades every part of your being when you finally decide to find the void.
I can't keep myself away from them—the thoughts. Any time it gets quiet, that's where I go, down the rabbit hole. Forgetting the world exists, what I'm doing, who I'm with, or the events that have brought me to this point.
When it comes for me, I can't help but whisper back. Throwing myself into a dangerous game of truth or dare—always erring on the side of challenge.
"Sadie, you might want to eat those mashed potatoes instead of pushing them around on your plate like some Zen Garden."
Yeah, he's still here. A sentry held up in the corner, armed and ready for a battle he cannot win.
I admire his dedication in some form or fashion, but even his encouragement does little to no good.
Not when I can read through him like the rice-paper pages of the Bible—words on the other side too dark to hide.
Say something, stupid girl.
No.
Do it, I will speak for you.
Liz shouts through me. My lips barely move with her rage.
Worthless thing!
She insults me while slamming inside of my skull.
I'm too tired to care for her tirade.
Still, I push the potatoes across the plate. Maybe if they appear disturbed, the nurses will think I ate today. I'm not hungry. My head hurts too much lately, makes it hard to hold an appetite or think beyond the chore of breathing.
I don't know when he moved but Elias appears beside me. His body eclipses the light and casts a shadow over me as if it's a weighted blanket.
"Hey..." he murmurs as he cautiously takes my hand. "Don't have to eat them. Will you drink something instead? There's some broth. Try a little bit then we can go back to sleep."
Sleep...I could sleep some more. Yeah, that sounds good.
He takes the fork from my hand and sets it down on the tray, then does something I don’t expect— he sits with me.
So, close I can feel warmth coming from his frame.
Wordlessly, I scan his profile. He has a nose that's been cracked one too many times but still suits him.
From the nights where the demons kept me awake, I've catalogued every tiny detail I could find.
His cupid's bow, the crow’s feet at the corner of green eyes I avoid most often, the faintest smile lines because he wouldn't be caught dead smiling when he's always on guard.
The man’s been weathered by life. He's loved and cared for people who left him behind.
Witnessed too many good people die at the hands of enemies.
Stuck around to guide people and asked for nothing in return, only to see them succeed.
Beneath his shell, he's the person everyone needs and I'm no different.
No matter how long I have him and when words fail me, I'll always need him.
We don't speak again. What else is there to say anyway?
Beside me, Elias picks up the Styrofoam cup full of broth and removes the lid. My heart hiccups when he blows cool air across the top. Ever so carefully, he reaches his other arm over my shoulder and tucks me against him, then tilts the cup and feeds me from it.
Small sips—if not for myself, then for him.
I surprise myself when the little girl inside of me seeks him out. Her small arms wrap around his waist and hold on for dear life.
I'm on the merry-go-round again, spinning around and around and around.
Boys and girls of all shapes and sizes are standing around as I spin.
I can barely make out their blurry and scratched-out faces.
Then his profile passes me quickly. Everything is moving too fast for me to focus, even when he zips by me again.
Wobbly, Earth's gravity slings me faster and faster, my legs too short to reach the ground to slow my spin.
I'm scared.
I want off.
Small hands grasp metal bars to haul me up from the platform where I sit with my legs dangling from the side in my pink dress. Wind catches the gentle cotton while sunshine sparkles off the glittery centers of the white flowers sewn into my skirt.
Dappled shadows I once chased now swarm the merry-go-round and creep across the metal. The monster, she's coming.
Not again.
I don't want to.
Wind tangles my long hair as I spin like a top and never slow.
I swipe at my face, pushing the strands away so I can see beyond the white curtain but lose my balance instead.
I won't let her catch me. The sky opens up, thunder cracks like bowling balls in the distance, then lightning shoots down from the clouds and strikes a few feet away.
Closing my eyes, I jump and pray he's there to catch me.
My angels must have dropped me because I wake with a jerk. Terror manifests in a blistering heat which builds in my ears and rushes down my body. At my side, Elias remains with blankets draped over both of us and strong arms holding me tightly. At first I didn't look, afraid of what I would find.
In his sleep, he leans in and presses the softest kiss to my forehead.
"I love you, Sunshine." His groggy voice barely forms the words. Yet, I don't hear them.
He caught me.