I saw them once, when I was little. Maybe age four or five.
The tree on the other side of the fence had branches stretching over our garden. It was too tall for me to reach the succulent, juicy
... [+]
L.N. Hunter shares an untidy home with two cats and a soulmate, and besides a comic fantasy novel, 'The Feather and the Lamp,' has been published in 'Best of British Science Fiction 2022' and 'Trickster's Treats 3,' among other magazines and anthologies. "Last Breath" is in Short Circuit #14, Short Édition's quarterly review.
They always say the final sense to go is hearing, but touch lasts right 'til the end. Not over the whole body, though; I can't feel Dot's hand in mine, but this fucking diaper itches like blazes. I must've shit myself again. Didn't notice it happening and can't smell it. Can't smell anything, but I can feel this fucking itch. I want to call the nurse, but I don't have the strength.
All I can do is lie here and listen to Dot rambling on. I try to squeeze her hand but can't do even that. Maybe she'll notice the smell and call someone. I'll just have to lie here with my itchy ass-crack.
Me and Dot. Me and Dot.
Dorothy Purdue. Who'd have thought? Married sixty-eight years, before she died. I remember chasing her through the fields at the old farm, both our faces ruddy and our bodies hot. We did it, right there in the stubble between the haystacks. My back was as itchy after as my backside is now. It was our first time, both of us, and Vera came along nine months later.
Back in those days, there was no question about doing the right thing, so we got hitched, and damn the gossips. It was an okay marriage; I didn't truly love Dot, but I did my duty. Even after a lifetime with her, I'm still not sure what love is. I do know what lust is, mind. Dot wasn't the smartest girl, nor the prettiest; we were just two people meeting at the right time. Diane Wilkins, on the other hand . . . long blonde hair and legs up to here, as they say, and a wanton smile that'd make a choirboy burst into flames.
"Gran, Grampy's got a stiffy! Eww!"
"Johnny! Shush! You can't say things like that."
That's not Dot's voice. Ah, damn my wandering mind. Vera takes care of my great-grandson after school because his parents work. They never visit me—too busy, both of them—but Vera still comes twice a week, Johnny in tow. It's Vera who's holding my hand and chattering away.
"Well, he does."
Vera sighs. "His body's old, and he can't control it."
Indeed, hearing persists even when nothing else works but my ass itch.
I've got a cataract in one eye and a plastic lens in the other; can't see a damned thing without my glasses. The nurses don't bother to put them on me anymore. There's nothing to look at, anyway—most of the time. I squint to try to see Dot—Vera, I mean—but all I get are blotchy shadows in the bright light. Can't tell which shapes are real and which are figments of my body's deterioration.
How long have they been here beside me? I struggle to say "Hello," but it comes out "Mwaagh."
"Do we have to stay?" Johnny whines.
That would've earned the boy a clip round the ear in my time, but I can't say I blame him. I don't want to be here, either.
"Just a few more minutes. Show some respect for your great-granddad." There's a hint of tears in her voice. "Go on, tell him about your day at school."
I don't hear them leave; I must've dropped off. At least my ass doesn't itch anymore. The light in the ward is still bright, but I can tell it's late evening because of the buzz of the fluorescent lights. Why do I have such acute hearing but can't see more than blurred silhouettes scuttling around the edges of my vision?
When I wake up again, there's only a faint glow from outside my room—the nurses' desk at the end of the corridor, I guess; nothing but shadows and darkness near me.
The room's crowded, full of movement and murmuring.
"Who's there?" I try to say, but all that emerges is a wheezing moan.
Some of the shadowy figures lean closer. Is that Dot? And there's Diane. They're laughing, just the way I imagined them when I liked to believe we could all be friends. I wonder what Diane's doing now.
No, this isn't real. Dot's dead, and Diane would be in her nineties, if she's still alive. I guess I'll be dead soon. I strain to hear what they're whispering, but they stop talking and stare at me, then slip back amongst the other shadows.
I know they aren't really there, and I know there aren't any shades waiting to greet me when I die; there's no such thing as the afterlife. The days of our years are threescore years and ten, the Good Book says. I reckon I'd got past fourscore and ten before I lost count, so I can't complain. I've had an okay life in the main—nothing too bad, nothing too good. Oh, I've had some regrets, but don't we all? And Vera made up for those; I felt an overwhelming need to protect her ever since I first laid eyes on her tiny, screwed-up face.
I'm not much use for protecting anyone these days. I want to tell the doctors and nurses, and Dot and Vera—even Johnny and his father, my grandson—that I've had enough of living. You don't realize how much you take communication for granted until you can't do it anymore.
It's just shadows visiting me in my imagination. They come more often than Vera, and they're more cheerful than my real visitors, even though I suspect their laughter is directed at me. But I don't care and start to laugh, too. I stop when I hear the grotesque sounds I'm making.
Dot's sitting beside me; I can feel her hand in mine, even though I know she's not there. She looks up, past my head. One of the shadows, taller than the rest, is approaching. It looms closer but I can't make out a face.
Damned imagination. I want to tell him I don't believe in him, either. I want to tell him I'm just going to bloody ignore him and go to sleep.
. . . and go to sleep . . .
. . . go to . . .