Death's Narratives

Chapter 1

The hospital hallways are a daily sight for me. The silence, which complements the whiteness of the surrounding and the solemn lighting, has always been there. Under the serenity that is bestowed by this ambience, there is always that crippling agitation. Usually, it is what people often call calm before the storm.

Because the stillness does not last. Every day, I see people waiting on the seats trying to pacify themselves before hearing news from a doctor. And when the words come out, they would stand and face the wall, bowing their foreheads as they silently cry. I remember when someone said to me that hallways become disturbing around these times. Walls are being cramped and the floors are narrowing, causing them harder to breathe. 

Sometimes, I think about what is in the doctors’ mind as they deliver the bad news to the patient's family or to the patients themselves. Are they used at saying things that would shatter dreams in an instant? How come they continue working their shift after that? Or maybe, they just get used to it as the years go by.

Somehow, I learned from them. The most important thing is not making the bad turn into worse. Euphemisms will just cause confusion, so using simple terms that a person would understand is recommended. But no matter how well you deliver bad news, it is still bad.

However, hallways don't always witness this kind of situation. There would be a day when someone would shake a doctor's hand out of gratitude, thanking them for saving one's life from a grave illness or accident. That is the difference between me and a doctor. Their job is to save lives and if they fail, I come to do mine.

As I walk the floor to the ICU, I see her standing outside peeking through the blinds, locking the tip of her fingers on the glass. The glass condenses as she takes her breaths. She is trying to calm down when she notices me approaching her. From there, I see her reflection: red, puffy and swollen eyes, her nose still running. With a still-sullen face, she faces me.

"Are you the one who called me?" she says, not leaving any trace of break in her voice. I commend her for being tough. But she needs more than toughness for what's about to happen.

Behind our reflection from the window is her father's helpless body lying on the bed with a few cables from different apparatus attached on his body. Skin's all pale and bloated. The staff are checking for progress. One is examining the monitors while the other one is performing a test, I believe. From the sight of wires alone, one can only say that he is in critical state, not mentioning that the machines and the drips are different than normal.

"Yes, Seya. Good thing you came. He's been waiting for you. He's been waiting for us."

It was a humid Friday afternoon when I visited Evon in his house. I knocked on the door but there was no response. Someone was clearly in the house because of the sound coming from the radio. The blasting noise welcomed me as I opened the door.

There he was, swinging on an old rocking chair with both of his arms placed on the armrest. He stared at me as I made my way inside. I sat on the mangled couch with rusty, loose springs and roamed my eyes. The house was dimly lit. Walls with faded paint, attached on the broken ceiling was a fan with a single spinning blade and a broken fluorescent lamp, my shoe print was made visible because of the dusty wooden floor.

Up close, his face and neck were wrinkly, his hair was winter-white, a typical feature for a person who hit senescence. Fingers were crooked, skin was faded and lethargic, and body so light that the tattered rocking chair was able to carry his weight.

"Go straight there, then turn left," Evon said. "That pipe's been leaking for days now." His voice was weak and demanding, but he was having a hard time speaking from the way he stopped after every few words.

"I'm sorry?" I said as I gently raised my voice. It was also not easy for me to understand him because of the loud noise coming from the radio which I deemed to be at a maximum volume.

"Aren't you the plumber? I can't hear you," he said.

"No. I am not a plumber, Evon!" I shouted. I had to slide myself on the couch and go near him, making sure that he was able to hear me.

"Then, you must be the social worker assigned to me. Are you, perhaps, the mechanic?" He stretched his arm to get his eyeglass on a stand next to the radio. When he wore it, his brows crossed upon seeing me. "You are not a bad person, are you?"

He was used to people coming into his house. He didn't recognize me right away because he was not wearing his glasses. It was rude of me not introducing myself when I entered. The bad thing is—I am not a bad person, because as I constantly think about it, I am worse than a bad person.

I have been doing this for as long as I remember but I never get used to properly addressing myself to them. I don't even know if there is really an appropriate way of saying who I am. It is also not ideal to show them my real form right away, so I developed this etiquette of paying them a visit before their time. I might not be able to introduce myself at first, but at least, I have time to spare. It is not necessary at all because there are cases and circumstances that don't require me knocking on their door.

"Yes. I am not a bad person," I assured.

His eyes widened, moving his back forward and slightly irritated. "What? I can't hear you. Will you speak loudly, please?"

"I said I am not a bad person!" After the squabble, I stood up and went to turn the radio off. No need for me to raise my voice, at last.

"What?"

"I said I'm not a bad person!" I repeated as loud as I could.

"Then, why are you shouting, huh? That's the line that a bad person would say."

"Mother of..." I whispered to myself as I grit my teeth. I made sure he didn't hear me this time.

Again, he extended his arms to get something in the drawer. After a moment, he handed me a key. "This is a key for that door"—pointing out a room at the right—"all my life savings are there. Leave my property immediately when you're done."

"I didn't come here for that. I just want to talk."

"I don'tt even know you."

"You do," I said, looking him in the eye, giving him my sympathy. "Every timed person knows me, that's for sure. Especially the ones your age. Aches and pains make you incapable. Your skills, strength and memory diminish. Your cells gradually deteriorate, limiting the biological process of the body until your organs slowly fail to function."

I had that script ready for someone like him. I have been saying that for such a long time, though I was not sure if he understood what I meant. There might be a need for me to change that because it is complicated. I did take note of using simple ways of saying words that someone would understand, but is there a way of telling that one's time is up in an uncomplicated means? Yes, I always have an option to be upfront, still, that doesn't result in something good every time.

"I get it. Spare me the introduction. You're not the bad one. You're just crazy—" He took a sigh and gently returned his head on the headrest, slowly closing his eyes as if he was ignoring what I said.  Then, a smile was etched on his face. "—crazy enough to go inside my house and tell me that I am going to die."

I got back on my seat and clasped my hand. Normally, I have to be patient or visiting them would have been for naught. I have to slowly make my way in before they fully grasp what I want to tell. Evon belonged to a few thousands. He knew what I was talking about. 

"How did you know?" I asked as I looked at him.

"So it's true!" He let out a faint laugh which later became a series of heavy coughs. "I wasn't born yesterday. My days are numbered already, I know that."

"Then, that's good. Let's make this easy for both of us," I said. Out of thin air, I took an hourglass and showed it to him. "Here is your hourglass. The amount of sands on top is your remaining time. Slowly, all the sand will fall indicating the end of your life."

Every person has an hourglass which denotes the passage of time. Once all granules of sands left the upper bulb, that means one's life has ended. It tells me how much time a person still has; it is absolute and fate has something to do with it. I don't possess the will to interfere over their fate for I know that it will cause an intervention beyond the Natural Order.

Evon adjusted his glasses, eyes narrowing out of confusion. "My time... when will it be?"

I am not obliged to tell a person's remaining time for some reason. It is okay if they just know that their days are numbered like Evon said. But I can always make an exception and give them an estimated time if they are eager to know.

"I'm afraid to tell you but you only have a few days left, Evon," I said with a straight face.

"I don't know if I'm just seeing things or it's just me also being crazy. There's a part of me that wants to believe you." Evon reclined on his rocking chair, making it screech. He took a deep sigh to prevent his coughs. "Rather, I want all of your nonsense to be true. But a few days? Really. That's too soon."

"There's nothing to be afraid of."

"I am not afraid of what's going to happen. I am afraid of not being able to hug my daughter, Seya, when he comes back home."

I turned the radio on. The house was then covered again with noise, yet for him, it was the only way of filling the empty house. I took the hourglass back as I walked towards the door, leaving him alone.

I give the key to Seya and tell her how his father missed her very much. Tears start to fall from her eyes. There is an emotion that forms on her face, the one which I call regret.

The staff suddenly go outside calling for doctors. Seya starts to panic when she senses that something is not right. Supports come in the room rushing, leaving the door open. Then, it resonates—the most dreadful, monotonous sound.

As we observe from the outside, we see them using the defibrillator. After trying so hard to revive him, it is announced as I check the time on my wristwatch.

"Time of death: 20:48"

I change to my real form, making me vanish from Seya's sight before she emotionally collapses. She immediately runs inside the ICU to hug his father. But it's too late for her. His father wouldn't be able to hug her back.

Evon's soul floats above his body and directly comes to me. Waiting is my palm, offering him a welcome. “Welcome to the Realm, Evon.”

The door is closed for privacy. And with the blinds being lowered, the glass is cleared with any light deflection from the room. On the window, I see my actual reflection.