Hemlock Concoction

I awoke feeling as if it had been decades since I last perceived light and my eyes took a long time to adjust to the lamp's glow. The room was dingy with smoke; and, my family was sitting silently in the corner, close together, reading books and old newspapers; no one seemed to know that I had opened my eyes and perhaps they didn't care that I had. I didn't care either, for that matter, they were only pretending to care for me. These people, I knew, just as my father knew, were only after money; and, for the same reason they crowded around my father's death bed, they stood here now, only to witness my death and know my fortune when it is read; and so they can say, "Oh dead, I was there when he left use, tragic, so tragic. And him so gifted." And to know that this was the sole reason of my families attendance made me appreciate my choice even more.

I am twenty-eight years old, the only son of Viktor McTrail, the ingenious writer who created Public Publishing Co. just before his untimely death in 1862; which unfortunately became my rsponsibilty. And I, already being tired of writing and knowing the problems that spring up in the politics of mass communication, decided that, just like Socrates, I would kill myself by drinking a hemlock concoction and be rid of the whole mess. This, I decided, would be a fine way to enter the next world, and, like that great thinker -- Socrates, not my father -- I would surround myself with my friends and loved ones and throw a celebration, as a true tribute to my life and the life of my friends; and, when it came time for me to drink that last goblet of wine, which was to claim my life and rid me of all my troubles, my life would be complete.

Knowing exactly what my plans were, my friends, who wrote love letters to me and painted pictures of me and lived with me, which was, by design, supposed to lighten my spirit and persuade me to stay in this world; and it was evident, by these gifts and attention, that my friends did not want me to die and my death would sadden them deeply. In the letters, the women offered me their undying love, promising everything they had, just only if it would improve my well-being and mind-set; and the men, offering their loyal trust and friendship, both made it know to me that I would be missed dearly; but in the end, being my true friends, they allowed me to lace my wine and drink it in their mists. And they were saddened.

But all the while, and only because they knew it was my will, the women sang songs of honor and bravery and played beautiful renditions of ancient tunes, for I had may instruments, mostly being for music which they knew and loved; and the women, also being nude, painted themselves white, as to resemble ivory statues, and danced to the tunes, which others played. I joined in with the songs, our voices reaching the limits of space. All this was performed just to show me how beautiful and wonderful the world could be.

And then, as the darkness began to take me, and I knew I would not be in this world much longer, I called to my Cassandra wanting to know, once more, her kiss and embrace. It was all so perfect and so eloquently done, even Socrates, who's genius I had read so much about, could not have planned such a wonderful death.

Then, it was night and I was Cassandra, I thought, but when I opened my eyes, I was surrounded by my family, these "smokers" who were nothing like the friends I had went to sleep knowing. I realized, with more regret than I could explain, that I had not died, and I knew even death could not be this cruel and that God has His hand in on this punishment. This knowledge that I still hade life gave me such a feeling of sadness and loneliness that I wanted to die even more and more ever second; and my family's eyes would dart at me. Wondering, if I am yet dead? I only wished I were and that the Public Publishing Co. becomes here and she has to run it; but that was all wishful thinking, I had missed my chance at a decent death and would never live to die better.

These people now, who sat in their corner smoking and reading, were gathered just as they had been at my father's death-bed. They did not care for me or for my life, nor of my father's life, nor of his love for words or of his understandings of the written sentence. All this congregation was interested in was money.

"B.W." Someone called, "Where's Cassandra with the wine and cheese?"

Then I recognized it as my eldest cousins voice, which always sickened me to madness because I heard my uncle's Germanic draw full of hatred and greed; for my uncle had accosted me when I was young about his becoming a published writer and how much better at it he was than my father and that everybody knew it. That voice maddened me to sickness.

Realizing that I had already heard too much, I attempted to raise my hand in a salute to them, to tell them that I had returned and everything was back to normal and that they should return to their homes and leave me to Cassandra, but after several attempts, my hand would not rise.

I tried, then, to open my mouth and tell them to be quiet, so I could make a speech, in which I would tell them to depart, but in defiance of my wishes, my jaw did nothing but hang slack in it's socket. Wine, I thought, I need wine, anything to wet my throat enough to curse these vultures; but even that simple act went unknown, for my command would not come forth.

Growing impatient of my situation, I gathered all my strength and summoned all I had in my mind to kick at the blankets covering my legs, for it made me furious to see these people sit in my room waiting for me to die; but my attempt to move went unnoticed. I could not move at all and I began to think myself an invalid; and, I realized, God had turned me away.

I always knew God's Kingdom was a hard place to enter and the fact I wasn't in heaven didn't surprise me, it was Death itself that disappointed me; that black hand, who's cold fingers gripped everyones soul and took them into darkness of hell, that place had nothing for me; and the next world, just like this one, had denied me happiness.

Why did I not die? This question weighed heavily upon my mind, as I lay unable to move. What was the purpose of my life? To write? That's no living. It only brings dreams of insanity and forces a person into a life with a backwards imagination. No, it was settled in my mind, writing was not enough to live; for, in writing a man dies many deaths and I had died enough. I was ready to do it once and for all.

So here I lay on my back, as a babe, seeing the people who's appearance I deplored and who's company I had spent so long hating. Even as a child, I looked on these faces and seen their wigs and watched their faces twist with anger; and I, just two months past, listened to them bicker as they watched my father die.

I could not stand it any longer. By hearing these voices and seeing these people with false pity in their eyes; these people, who I had spent my who life loathing; these people, who were only waiting for me to die; I realized that I had damned myself to a life worse than death; and even worse than before, which was a life spent breathing the same air as these people. I wanted so desperately to strangle myself, but now I would have these people watch over me, and feed me, and change me, and abuse me if they so chose, like a bird in a cage; Nay, like a worm in a box.

This knowledge made my stomach lurch; and as complete understanding slowly crept in on my wondering mind, I tried to rebuke this insanity which had become my life and tell myself this was a dream and that this world, which had filled the void which death had so easily denied claim, would soon be over and I would awake either in heaven or hell; and life would finally be over.

Then, in a series of convulsing gasps, my chest grew hot and sweat popped out on my forehead. Another second passed and I chilled, freezing to my core. I was wondering about my condition when the family looked toward me, their eyes glazed over from opium use, yellow with black rims. Another hot spell came over me and I puked over my chin onto my chest, the scent of that bile way putrid. This scene and smell, I'm sure, caused my family to turn away in disgust.

I heard the door open then and quick steps came in my direction. A hand appeared, so white and soft, holding a moist towel, carefully dabbing my mouth and cleaning the black goo of from my neck; and she softly touched me face, so delicately cleaned me. It wouldn't have been so soft if it wasn't her hand, the hand of my beloved Cassandra.

The cloth being ice cold made me want to jerk, but only my eyes flinched and as the wetness ran down my cheeks and chin, I longed for her touch again and tried to lean forward. The coldness then stopped halfway down my neck and I realized that I could notlift my head or feel the cold water on my neck, nor could I feel her towel, which was on my chest. That's when I knew, thats when the world came crashing in on me, like nothing I could ever explain.

I was an invalid.