I’ve been bound to this bed by the pain I swallow each and every day. It enters through my lips and slips off my tongue, scorching my throat before pouring out into my lungs. I breathe in and it hurts, I breathe out and it hurts even worse, pouring down into my stomach and wrenching me until I just can’t take it anymore. It burns my legs and falls to my feet where it stays and it never goes away. It doesn’t ever go away. It just piles up until all of my legs are in pain, and my stomach and my arms and my neck and my head and I just can’t move anymore.
Death is the orphan everyone knows about, but no one wants. The orphan comes to everyone’s door at one point or another, and it always manages to find a way in. It is the fate that none of us can escape; one of the only true unavoidable things in life.
I always had just two goals in life. When I was twelve, I decided that I wanted to become a writer. To get one novel published, just one. Just a single novel, and to see that novel on the shelf, that was the first goal at which I succeeded. The second goal was to raise a family. To find a beautiful wife, settle down and have wonderful kids, to raise them until they went out into the world to do wonderful things – that was my second goal.
I lay here surrounded by some of the greatest people in the world. I see my wife and my daughter and I see my son. Then I see my grandchildren right in front of them, but they look so crestfallen. They’re weeping, and I want to comfort them but I can’t. I try to open my mouth but nothing comes out, as slowly but surely God has retaken almost all the senses he first loaned me so long ago.
The flowers they bring that once gave me hope are now as odorless as the moon, no longer do the tears I bring to them fill my tongue with the raw taste of pure salt. The cries they have for me are now silent as my grave. I can only feel their warm touch off my old, withered skin, feel the cold tears on my cheeks, feel the overwhelming pain that stays with me until the angels song. I can only see them mourn for me, weep for me and stare at me so.
Now it seems God has taken my sense of touch. I can no longer feel the air pulsing through my lungs, the touch of my family's hands on my old, withered skin. But nothing hurts me anymore. It feels so different. It feels so nice. Like I'm a little boy again, hobbling to the front of the sandy beach, letting the warm water clean the sand off my hands. Free of pain, free of worries, free of fears and doubts and remorse. I have regrets just as everyone else, but they don't matter much where I'm headed. For the first time since I was a child, I am free.
My-my family, they’re all evaporating! One by one, they fade into dust! The walls, they’re disappearing. The floor is gone, and the bed, it's also gone - I am floating. The orphan is here.
All I see is a bright light. There’s someone in the distance.
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The thing I like most about your story is the symbolism in it. the orphan symbol is a spot on description of death and the way you wrote it was perfect.
The thing you need to change would be the last line. I think you could completely delete this entire line. The ending would be so much better if it ended with that just adds a dramatic ending and a rap up to your symbolism.
thanks for reading, friend. I dunno, kind of like the ending as is.
Hi! So I'm just going to give this a review, and let me just start out by saying, I really like the title of your story. It is very interesting and makes you wonder what the writing is about, even if you can make some pretty good guesses.
Here we go:
I really like the analogy of death and orphans, I never thought of it that way. Which is good because when you read something you want to open your mind to new concepts.
I didn't see any errors, which is fantastic. And oh my gosh, wonderful story! This really makes you think more about the fact of death, what will you be thinking while on your deathbed. And I think that you did an amazing job writing a story that is realistic, something people would wonder, or something they'd want to do. It was a well written story, and I enjoyed reading every word of it.
Keep Writing,
B.E. Writer
Thanks friend
You've put forth an admirable effort here to describe the nitty-gritty physical experiences of decay along the path to death. I was struck by your description of the man's persistent bodily pain in the first paragraph. You've characterized the pain like water, or like some freely-sloshing, always corrosive liquid bottled inside him. A demonic, mundane kind of pain that never leaves the man's awareness... like the orphan Death.
I was also struck by the man's sensation of helplessness as he sees his grandchildren crying at his bedside, but he finds himself unable to articulate anything to mollify them. This felt very real.
On the other hand, in the paragraph immediately following, I felt a dullness in the man's stated sensations. He 'tells', but doesn't 'show', I suppose. The visceral quality in the previous paragraph is somewhat lost in this one... I think you could improve this by avoiding over-use of "I no longer felt..." Also, emphasize the degradation of his senses less with hackneyed phrases, and more with imagery of death and decay:
"Those flowers Mary held smelled like vanilla ten minutes ago, but now, they might just be plastic, odorless things."
"My little grandsons and granddaughters have tears trailing down their cheeks, and I can feel droplets on my own jaw, whose salt I tasted moments ago, but all is dulling and numbing now. I suppose it's only eye-reddening water, after all."
"The air is leaving my lungs through my mouth, and my lungs are collapsing. The touch of my family's hands is warm, but then it whispers away into nothing."
I'm not saying you should use this lines exactly, but I think your story could benefit (slightly) in certain places from adopting the tone/spirit of these lines. You already have this spirit in the paragraph about the family 'evaporating'. There's an aspect of horror to this man's fast-moving decay that could be explored further, in the ways that I recommend.
I love the specific image you chose, of a young boy digging in the sand at the beach, for the feeling and memory of unencumbered, thoughtless play. That struck me as very unique, and it was one I related with, having grown up on the Pacific Coast of the United States.
Lastly, your characterization of Death as an orphan is brilliant. "Death is the orphan everyone knows about, but no one wants." An astute, truly memorable line.
Nice work!
Thanks friend. I'll make some changes to the "senses" portion in a bit.