When In Doubt

Today, I will die. I know it.

Not by gunfire, or drowning, or starvation, or any of the unnatural ways of death. No.

Today, I shall die of old age. I know it.

How do I know it? I shall tell you. I shall tell you all, although I doubt you shall be around long enough to hear the end of it.

The warning signs were always there: I was, of course, too busy to notice in my youth, and now am too frail to heed them. The signs of fatigue, of exhaustion, a certain constant trembling of my right hand. There was, of course, the inevitable sleeping in trains, and the waking up just a little too late.

The final sign was today.

My small cottage has started feeling larger and larger the emptier it gets. At first, I had a wife and three children. I had my eyes back then. Soon my wife died, and I started wearing spectacles. Then, one of my children went away to college, and I needed bifocals. Soon, all my children were gone: settled in life. And I, with old age and slow decay, became blind.

I was their breadwinner. And they, my love.

And the final sign.

I woke up in the morning to an empty cottage. The door was closed, the wind had shut it down with a fury. The lights seemed off, but I wouldn’t know. I had no sight, of course, but I could still smell. I could still feel.

My hand went to the mattress. And it was wet.

This is the final sign. The uncontrolled urination. The last bit of manhood I had has been drained out of me.

I am no longer a functioning human being.

But of course, you think, this is not true. It cannot be.

But you will never know. You will never know.

My family.

I remember certain things rather clearly. Peculiar details.

Such as breakfast: I ate alone at the table. This was so as everyone rushed to get out in time to reach their respective destinations, in the time I took to eat one mouthful. I was always the last to leave, and the first to arrive. Strange.

My firstborn was a tailor.

My secondborn was a soldier.

My thirdborn was a thief.

Last I heard, they were doing well in their respective trades. There were a lot of torn clothes to be mended, men to be torn dead, and houses to be tormented.

You are still confused as to why I will die.

It is because…I am sick. I am very deathly sick. An illness has gripped itself upon my mind and soul.

Strangely, it is a physical illness. Not a mental or emotional one. There are tumours protruding out of me, just in case you think it is imagined. But of course, it must be imagined, there can be no other way.

You are still here, I hope? You get a little quiet sometimes, when you quit shuffling your feet and staring intently at me. It is very difficult to tell whether you are still here, mentally and otherwise. Not that I care about the otherwise.

I shall tell you, my friend, a truth. When you wish for something sad, it shall come true. The only reason I am sick is because I wished I were sick.

These tumours are my tumours. I have willed them from my body. The power of the negative is much stronger than the power of the positive.

Why did I will it so?

I had a friend. A long, long time ago. She was not a romantic interest, nor a lustful one. She was not a relative of mine, nor a mentor, nor a motherly figure. She was merely a friend.

But that right there was the catch.

She was not just any friend. She was my greatest friend.

One fine day, we stopped talking. And we have never talked since.

I lived my life, married, had children, grew old, went blind, and never thought twice about her, except every now and then. But, one day, a few months ago, an idea gripped me, nay, a fever.

If I were to die of a deadly illness, I think she would come and visit me.

I have been waiting for three weeks. I know for sure she will come next week.

I remembered something just now. You still here?

I remembered how I was a marathon runner. I rushed about in a similar way. I spent my entire life running so my family could one day run their own races.

Now, the only living thing left in the house is a hamster, running on the wheel, and getting nowhere.

Heh.

We seem to be diverting from the topic: Today, I will die. I know it.

I knew I would die yesterday too.

But perhaps I will not.

But I know I will definitely die tomorrow.

What’s that? You’re still here? I wouldn’t know…you’ll have to speak up, I’m afraid. I’m blind.

Well, thank you for listening to me.

Ah, that’s the knock on the door, perhaps it’s her, or perhaps it’s the Reaper.

Either way, I am content.

I will now go to sleep.

Good night.