Michelle Nhung Le

Posted on: 16/9/2021

It’s 2am at night. He can’t sleep. The rain sizzles outside, while simultaneously dripping through the leaks and cracks of the shack he calls home. The rooms are empty, without electricity or lighting, with molds and weeds as decorations. Once he couldn’t stand it, but now, when a place to sleep is a luxury, he cannot complain. Instead, he looks through the old decrepit venetian window, the last trace of his past fortune, to the streets. There is an eerie stillness, and more dominantly, desolation. The once glorious city is now a colossal pile of ruins, wretched and defeated by the forces of nature. The streets are filled with broken concrete, furniture, and random items that somebody once held dear. Everything is covered with dust and ash, emitting a sense of ancientness, a reminder that the world as we know it is long gone. His survival now seems to be a mixed blessing, as if fate was playing with him, not allowing him to escape this apocalypse.

Nonetheless, he was still here. Sometimes he thinks of this as a sizable feat, considering that not many people survive this long. He has faced everything in his short lifetime, and succeeded: he was a respected military leader and soldier in the US Army. He has gone to almost every continent, fought every enemy possible and won all the medals he could. When the country was not at war, his window business went very well despite all the financial recessions. He never loved, never had a family of his own, but why did he need that? Love meant more responsibilities, more things to lose, more worries in this world. He stood outside, watching all his comrades and partners getting married, having children and family. He wanted no part of that, and it turned out to be a great decision. When the disasters struck, he had nothing else to lose, except his own life. While people died having regrets about things they haven’t done, he was alive having nothing left to do. That was a bit unfair, right? But life was unfair, he knew that. He tried to make up for it, taking the role of a vigilante, helping people if they want to and fulfilling their wishes. He had attended countless funerals, made plenty of vows for doomed couples, and myriad things that he never imagined people wanting. He could just easily end it and be content with what he had done. He served the country, made money, traveled the world, and took good care of his parents until they died. He had no attachments to this world anymore.

Yet, as life flows, he is here. Back to the place he was born and raised, and also the place he decides to spend what probably are his last days. Over the years, injuries piled up. First it was just pure fatigue. Then the pain became more and more chronic, slowly creeping in his limbs, like death slowly taking over. His legs got slower, his fists got softer, and even the endless energy rushing in his veins for decades started to fade. The once invincible warrior had to look after himself instead of others, as the good people either were killed or turned sly and inhumane. He couldn’t blame these people. It was the only way to survive in this harsh world. However, his regret was not just about the disappearance of the decent folks. It was also about the bitter fact that there was nothing left to fight for. How long had it been since he actually did something he was proud of? All he did was crawl back home and stay there till the days blurred away. Death is the only thing that remains now. It’s not a task anymore, it’s just something that will happen, and it’s happening quickly. His body is rotting as the clock ticks. There is not much time left, but what can he do about it? His legs are sore and cramped, his back seemingly breaks already. As pain spreads through his body, torturing him day by day, dying should be something he can easily manage. Yet ironically, he is so close to death that killing himself is an impossible task. Normally, he can just pull a trigger or thrust a knife at some spot in the body, and the work is done. Now, even crawling to the other side of the bed seems unlikely. The only thing he will do now is wait to die, to get rid of everything left.

This process, strangely, seems pretty boring. The constant injuries have made him numb of any pain or suffering. It doesn’t feel bliss, but it doesn’t feel hell either. To him, who is sitting in his probable deathbed, staring out at the dreary ruins that are the city, waiting for some miracle to take him away, dying seems like his everyday normal routine. He heard someone say that after you died, your brain would rewind memories before it shuts down. It will probably be interesting, but until then, he doubts things will get any better.

He looks again at the room, concentrating on the details that he often neglects. Everything was so familiar, almost deja vu. The walls are blotted and rusted, but the ivory-white paint and old Victorian patterns are still precise and graceful. Right here, in the place he grew up, his mind suddenly connects itself to the old memories. He remembers all the times he locked himself in this exact room after school, booming some Megadeth metal tracks, not talking to anybody, trying to repress the stifled aches of loneliness. He wasn’t particularly well-known in school. And in high school, popularity was a big deal. The first pages of his old notebook, full of angsty self- loathing rants, pretty much summed things up.

Girls were, of course, out of the question. That one girl, to be exact. He tried to catch a glimpse of her once in a while in the few classes they shared. She was always vibrant, always laughing, smiling with other girls, and sometimes other boys too. He would like to think she smiled at him sometimes, those puppy eyes shone brighter whenever he glanced, with a playful smirk that he would not forget, but probably it was directed to the guy next to his locker. His heart jumped when she even walked near him, and in the few times she talked to him, it seemed to explode beyond repair. This crush, while pretty short-lived and rather not traumatizing, inspired the poet, the reader inside him. No more ranting nonsense in the pages, just the poems and stories, written with passion and spontaneity that surprised him today. Books appeared more on the next entries, as he dived into the fantasy worlds, finding connection with the misfits, the heroes, the larger-than-life, Heathcliff and Achilles. Music comes into his life too, the intensity of metal music perfect for teenage angst, and the spontaneous beauty of jazz that he came to love in his later times. Real life, real people intrigued and confused him much more than these strange worlds in literature.

Nonetheless, his interests in books, poems and music were just an anomaly. As he got older, he joined the military, starting his life as he knows it. When the Army called him for a super soldier experiment, his dreams came true. He became larger than life, having a path different and more exciting than most, while full of the human experience that he never wanted. He was proud of it, and he still is. Yet, he looks back, wondering what would have happened if he had chosen the other path. What if he got the courage to ask the girl out, instead of writing love poems that he would never send? Maybe he would have found the soul mate, the family, and lead a life with the people he loved. Just maybe, he could have felt the feeling that he saw in his friends’ eyes, when they got married, when they had their first kid, and even when they talked about the troubles they had with it. It was a different kind of passion, a devotion, a profound love and care, and mostly, a feeling that you belong with something. He had no time for that.

Instead, he’s here, bored to death (the irony). He uses his last pieces of strength left in his limbs to reach for his bedside cupboard, yearning for some entertainment. His favorite Oscar Wilde illustrated collection is still there, but the whole thing is too difficult to move, let alone bring up to bed. The Miles Davis CDs are always a joy to listen to, but his habits of using speakers instead of headphones and the possibility of noise attracting unwanted undead visitors make this option impossible.

He tries and reaches further, and out of nowhere, a last words collection pops out. It is a small book hidden deep inside the cupboard, decorated with spider webs and brown-reddish foxing. It sure has the smell of old books: a pleasant woody aroma, almost vanilla, mingled with a musty feel of age. It perhaps is one of the few books left of his parents’ huge collection, neglected or treasured, as to which he’s not sure. Nonetheless, this is probably his only decent choice. The book is a reasonably large compilation of phrases claimed to be the “last words” of great people of ages. Of course, many of them remark on dying, which is quite relatable. Richard Feynman the physicist’s last words were “this dying is boring.” Benjamin Franklin commented when his daughter tried to change his bed position: “A dying man can do nothing easy.” It seems these dying feelings are really universal after all. But these remarks are not the most popular ones. The vast majority of people’s last words are terms of endearment and regret, of hope, whether for redemption or an afterlife. It is something that is strong, filled with passion and emotion, which people say to others before they die, so as to leave their own life with less regret.

What should he say as his last words then? Some profound remarks, some thought- provoking words for future generations to ponder for centuries. Maybe even sculpt his name and pride on a stone, so that eons later, a Percy Shelley can write a poem about it. Then an excruciating thought dawned on him. Who can be here to listen to his last words? Probably no one is left in this city, or even in this world. Supposing that there are people left, they won’t listen to him or remember what he says. He realizes he is and will be alone in this world in his final moments as a human being, enduring the pain of death without someone to care or just be there and share his suffering. He reassures himself that this is just because of the apocalypse. If it hadn’t happened, maybe things would have turned out better. But really, who would be here for him, even if this world were still filled with people? He has never had any true friend or companion, someone who appreciates him and enjoys his company. He is just an everyman, heard by many, known by none. When he was strong and healthy he could serve himself, but now, when strength is going away from him, he feels more vulnerable than ever. Maybe, he has chosen the wrong path. Maybe, he has indulged himself in the realization of his own dream, while losing the chance to enjoy the beauty of a human’s life, the beauty of love, caring and belonging. So in these final moments, he has nothing to say, no one besides him to hear, to understand him. Loneliness and desperation creep up on him as the physical pain eats him away. Consciousness starts to slip, as his line of thoughts becomes fuzzy, unclear. Gradually, all his senses go numb as a seemingly fatal spark of pain strikes the whole body. Is this death? His brain starts to work again. Memories flick through his eyes like a projector, rewinding his moments on this earth. The girl, the school and his teenage years flash through quickly, seemingly insignificant. The images of his mom and dad, whom he has forgotten for years, crop up, powerful and sweet as ever. The moments he prides himself on, his first flight, the medals he got in the military. But the most endearing and overwhelming of all, is the joy and gratefulness of other people he saw. From all the years he has been a soldier, a vigilante, a “superhero”, there were always the great smiles and kind words he heard every day, from people he saved to people who just admired him. Each of them only lasts for a moment in his life, but it is a moment of pride and happiness, a bit of strength for him to go on. Given that he may miss a thing or two, he can still feel proud when he watches the final rewind. His life is long, eventful and fulfilling, and he can’t let these depressing little final moments ruin it. After all, life gives him all the last words he needs.

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