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The Art of Dying

Audrey · 2011-04-29T17:37:07Z

You knew you were in trouble when you stopped sweating. You had finished off the water two and a half days ago. The empty bottle hung lifeless by your side, taunting. The first few days after the accident, you were frantic. Racking your brain for the few tips you had managed to glean from watching those survival shows that played on the Discovery Channel. That’s how you knew that this was the beginning of the end. This was when all those poor Discovery saps found a shadow to hide under and waited for that miraculous helicopter to come over the hills. Slowing walking across the dry sand, you knew you wouldn't be so lucky. You never were religious, but you prayed anyway. Your tongue was laden, heavy, thick. You had numerous aliments, but that’s all you could focus on. The tongue that had formed so many words, the tongue that helped you convey so many thoughts, the tongue that sung so many off-tune songs into your ipod, and now you just wanted to rip it out. At least the blood would provide a little moisture. You probably should have rationed your water, but you had heard stories. You weren’t going to be one of those bodies they found in the mountains with half a bottle of water. You weren’t that stupid, you were going to die smart. Four years of university had to be worth something, didn’t it? If you weren’t so wrecked, you might have laughed at the irony of it all. “Let’s go on a hiking trip to celebrate graduation,” you had said. The days were relentless, the Arizona sun beating down endlessly between the sheer faces of the mountains. It was hot, sure, but that was nothing compared to the dryness. So very dry, every breath you took stung your throat, grated against the parched lining. The nights were as cold as the days were hot, and just as dry. Not a drop of moisture anywhere. You were so desperate; you would have drank your own urine, if you had any left. You decided you couldn’t walk anymore, it was fruitless anyway. The landscape hadn’t changed for hours. You eyed the desert, the mountains, the packed sand, searching for a suitable place to die, that, at least you had control over. You settled on a particular pretty portion of the slab to your left. You had always loved these mountains. They were so majestic, so beautiful, glittery strips of color running through the granite, forming a rainbow of purples, reds, and oranges. You never thought they would betray you. You never thought they would kill you. You lowered yourself on to the sand pushing yourself up against the wall, every muscle protesting in pain. The sand stung your burnt skin, the hot grains inflaming your already battered body. You rested your head against the rock in resignation. Nothing to do now but wait for the end. You wondered what they would say at your funeral; you wondered who would come. It would be held at the church you never go to, presided over by a pastor you never hear. People would use words like “peace,” “better place,” and “God’s plan.” Words said so often in reference to so many people, they were all but meaningless. You pictured your family, sitting quietly in the first pew. Your brother fidgeting in an itchy rented suit, playing nervously with his hands, only twelve and so sensitive. You hoped he wouldn’t live his life in the shadow of death. Your mother would be beside him, holding his hand and quietly crying into a tissue. She would have spent the morning making sure every arrangement was made, that everyone looked perfect. She would fret about your brother’s hair, how it never laid flat. She would spend half-an-hour trying to find the right pair of shoes, maybe throwing a couple in frustration. She would call the florist for the fifth time, just to make sure of the details. The first time she would have stopped moving is the funeral. Sitting in that pew, with no distractions, she would let herself cry, finally. Your father would put his arm around her, trying to be strong. He had his wife and remaining children, he had to be their rock. He would not tell anyone, but he probably mourned you earlier, holding back tears in the privacy of his den, watching home videos on the old TV, torturing himself. Last came your sister. Hands clasped demurely on a small stack of papers. She would be nervous about delivering the eulogy, but you knew she would do great. She had such a way with words. She would walk to the pulpit, high heels echoing of the hardwood floors, the crowd going silent. She would talk about how great you were, recalling many memories. Maybe she would speak of the trips to lake, the games you would gleefully play in the water. How you always tried to splash her, failing miserably. Or maybe she would mention the day they dropped you off at university, how they were all so proud. Of course, she would ignore the all times you pulled her hair or cursed her out. You would be a better person in death then you could ever be in life. She was getting married soon. You mentally cursed yourself for dying, for stealing some of that wedding day joy from her. You hoped she could be really happy in spite of you. You hoped they were still madly in love at eighty. You hoped your future nieces and nephews would live full and happy lives. You wished you had a paper and pen. You wished you could tell your family and friends everything you were too scared to say. You wished you could tell them you loved them and that you’re sorry, but you couldn’t. You hoped they wouldn’t find your body. They didn’t need to remember you as a pile of weathered bones, or worse yet, a heap of rotting black flesh, half -eaten by vultures. You wanted them to remember you as you lived. No matter how pitiful that life was. What had you done, really? You had spent your entire life in school. Sitting in chairs, listening to lectures, learning of a world you had never really experienced. You thought you had your entire life to travel to exotic places, to fall in love, to eat way too much. Turns out, your entire life was twenty-two years long. You were too tired to lament the injustice of it all, it was futile. The sun went behind the mountains. You prepared for the cold, curling your ravaged body into a ball. You knew you wouldn't make it till morning. As the night went on, you were increasing confused. Your thoughts were bordering on incoherent, yet you had awareness that this was the end. You wondered absently what you last words should be. It didn’t seem to matter that no one would hear them. You were upset that you weren’t all that witty. Those last words were essential to everything, the key to some unseen door, so you thought. You looked up at the sky, saw the constellations casting their dim light, and you had it. This last word was easily the best to ever be uttered. It came in barely a whisper, your lungs were so far gone, but you managed it, “Star.” Yes, yes, that was the perfect. You were filled with a kind of peace. You had accomplished your task, it was complete. You closed your eyes and listened: Beat. Beat. Beat. Beat. Beat. Is that a helicopter? You can hear it. It’s there, you’re certain. It came to rescue you, you’ll be famous. You’ll hug your mother again, laugh with your friends. Beat. Beat. Beat. Beat. You listen to the last sounds of your heart as you slip into darkness. A/N: Any and all thoughts would be lovely. :) The 2nd person perspective is new for me, not certain if I like it. Also, I am not the hugest fan of the title, if anyone has any other suggestions, I would love to hear them!

Mikalgogo

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Points 690

Reviews 1

Tue May 03, 2011 4:59 am

Mikalgogo says... · Tue May 03, 2011 4:59 am

So I just read your story and I found it to be quite well written. However it did concern me that overall you lacked a voice in your writing, and the plot wasn't necessarily the most original. I did still enjoy your widespread use of fragmented sentences of which I am an avid fan myself. I would love to see you expand as a writer and come up with a more unique and catching story next time. Best of luck

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magpie0817

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Points 1163

Reviews 6

Tue May 03, 2011 12:14 pm

magpie0817 says... · Tue May 03, 2011 12:14 pm

Hey there! I loved this peice, you really caught the essense of the dry atmosphere, though I think you could have dragged on her exasperation a little more rather than going from happily hiking to dying on a rock. Did the narrator give a fight at all? Did they try to find food or water or shade? I feel like he/she gave up too easily.
But enough with the criticism! You did a REALLY good job on this one! The topic of death isn't an easy thing to write about; you need a lot of description and emotion going into it, and I think you have most of it down pat. You know what you're talking about!

bring peace, give love, accept life
☮☮☮☮
-Magpie-

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Cheat your landlord if you can and must, but do not try to shortchange the Muse. It cannot be done. You can’t fake quality any more than you can fake a good meal.
— William S. Burroughs

The Art of Dying

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