Incendiary
Sitting at the kitchen table by the window, smoking and watching out the open window. The screen had long since been torn away, by animals, perhaps. The scent of a dying fire on the cool evening breeze carried from the city: a primal, inviolable, deeply human smell.
I’d just come from there. My work for the day was done, and there was nothing to do now but rest.
They said the cigarettes had given me cancer, and cut out my larynx. Them. Doctors. Hospitals. People whose profession was to help you live. It all sounded so phony. Laughable, even.
I hadn’t wanted to go, but my husband had pleaded and begged me into it. In the end, I went for him. He wasn’t afraid of what he called my paranoia, but he was terrified of losing me to cancer. He might have been naive but he was kind, and he loved me, and I could never say really say no to him; not when it mattered. So they weren’t the ones who took my voice. I had given it as a gift to my husband, to stop his tears. After all, I still had hands to write, feet to run.
Now he was dead, too. Taken away by the same men in white, in an ambulance. Halfway through dinner, he’d fallen down. I hadn’t been able to protect him after all.
I tamped out the butt of my cigarette and lit up a new one, breathing deep. The sunset’s pink light caught the edges of the dissipating cloud over the city. It was a beautiful evening. They couldn’t touch that.
A laser focused over my heart. I pretended not to notice, gave the marksman time to aim, and took one more long drag, relishing the flavor, the last thing left to me.
Aim well, bastards. I’ve already made my mark.
I want to part this world seconds following the punch line of my last original joke, albeit I’ll be damned if it isn’t a lame one. But not managing that, standing defiant against a SWAT sniper is a good second choice.
LikeLiked by 1 person
You mean like, you want an Oscar Wilde quotable death?
I hope to fall off a cliff and go YAAA HOO HOO EEEE. Barring that, I have discussed with my family the option of slingshotting my urn over a cliff.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Oscar, I recall, urged us to be true to ourselves. Which means I’ll need to come up with a joke that face flops.
LikeLiked by 1 person
You’ll spend your whole life working on it, making sure it flops, and just your luck, it’ll be the best joke you ever made
LikeLiked by 1 person
You are so right, Sarah! The gods will never allow it to flop. Sentenced as they are to the boredom of eternity, they resent the happy death.
LikeLiked by 1 person
well put 😀
LikeLike
Do you have a fallback plan if your family cannot find a slingshot big enough to throw an urn?
LikeLiked by 1 person
My dad has a water balloon slingshot. If it can’t be used, I have faith in my family’s ability to improvise.
LikeLike
What a blessing it is to have a supportive family that cares deeply enough to slingshot you over a cliff.
LikeLiked by 1 person
I consider myself uncommonly lucky in family and friends 😀
LikeLiked by 1 person
She’s finally doing it her way–I’m both horrified and proud! Mona
LikeLiked by 2 people
HI MONA MISS YOU oops did I say that loud
LikeLiked by 1 person
ILove this. I’ve been in a void, forgot – again – how good your writing is.
LikeLiked by 2 people
I’ve been in that void too! And just went to your blog and got steamrolled by your amazingness. I’m still a bit flat here and there 😉
LikeLike
also ❤
LikeLike
Lovely. I can taste the bitterness!
LikeLiked by 1 person
Thank you ^_^
Now spit it out!!! It’s bad for your soul…
LikeLiked by 1 person
Noted. Brushed my teeth just to make sure.
LikeLiked by 2 people
This is beautifully heartbreaking. Love that defiant ending! ❤
LikeLiked by 1 person
Thank you Tom!
LikeLiked by 1 person
Pingback: Need advice | Fresh Hell