What’s the worst way to die?
You’re lying in a hospital bed dying of three different types of cancer and no one to talk to. Well, not no one. There is that one kid who comes in on weekends to get his volunteer hours in. He asks you about your life, but you have nothing interesting to tell him. No stories at all.
“Hey, my name’s Johnny! I’m here as part of my Church’s initiative called Senior Helpers. You’re Albert, right?”
He pushes his dirty blonde hair out of his eyes every time he asks you a question. Your answers are curt. Why bother the kid with your boring past. Where were you born? Some suburb of Cincinnati. Where did you go to college? Some midwestern place that accepted your average grades and ambition. What did you want to be when you grew up? What a fucking joke.
Eventually, you just pretend to fall asleep each time he comes. He just sits in the awkward silence. But you’re used to it. That silence has been with you for all your adult life. It’s easier than the effort of talking when you have nothing to say. You don’t remember the last time you had something of note to say.
You floated your way through life like a cloud tossed about by the wind. Your most prominent college memories are the dreams you had while asleep in class. After college you had 40 years of looking forward to relaxing mindlessly in front of a TV on the weekends and nights after your 9-5 job.
“You do anything interesting recently Mr. Smith?
Johnny would remind you of all your relatives at those family reunions. You hated those more than anything. Happy people coming together to each boast of what they had done in the past year. One by one your siblings got married until only you were left. At some point you stopped coming to those reunions. You even stopped calling your parents. Eventually, they stopped calling you.
By the time you decided to reconcile with your elderly mother it was too late. She didn’t even recognize your face. She was surrounded by loved ones trying to keep her alive on the power of their love alone. All you have are Johnny’s stupid questions.
The pain makes it hard to sleep at night. Or maybe it’s just the self-loathing. You wish for a quick end but are too much of a coward for suicide. You have more time than you know what to do with, and after having your eyes glaze over your thousandth TV show, you realize it doesn’t even work at distracting you anymore. It can’t distract you from the fact that you are nothing and your life has been a failure.
Five years have passed since Johnny last visited, and the only person who has spoken to you is the nurse checking your vitals. Only pain is a constant companion, and your body continues to betray you by refusing to die.
Your health is gone. Your money is gone. Your loved ones are gone. All you have to blame for your life is yourself. One image keeps coming back to you. Your unmarked grave in some forgotten corner of a graveyard.