Watching

Someone once told me that each death never goes by forgotten. Whether it be an unborn baby deprived of the life he or she was destined to carry out or a guilty criminal robbed of the rest of their stained life they had chosen for themselves, there is always another person in the world keeping the memory of them in their mind at all times.

That was a very long time ago.

I sifted through my own memories, focusing on one in particular. Details were sketchy and squinting wasn’t going to help. I closed my eyes.

There was nothing. How could that be? My memories showed me something far more complicated and yet here I stood with my eyes darting around in my search through the bleak darkness. Then I remembered.

Like my fingers had flipped a light switch invisible to my eyes, I saw everything. I was reliving my past through my own thoughts. Strange, yet I found this comforting. I was outdoors. Chilly gusts of wind bit and pinched at my exposed arms and face. I felt the electricity surge through my veins once again; perhaps a result of the bursts of adrenaline in my body at that moment so many years ago. Despite the cooling air, which felt soothing now compared to the first time, I could see the glisten and gleam of the beads of sweat dotting my arms. My toes curled fiercely and my knuckles turned white as I balled my hands into fists. My familiar dark hair clung to my forehead whilst dripping with my own sweat. As tattered and torn as they were, I could make out the ghastly uniform I had worn and what was left of it. I could see –

My observations were cut short by the siren. They only sounded the siren during an emergency. Was I an emergency? The piercing wail of the all-too-familiar siren slashed at my eardrums, a sensation I was not new to.

I could hear the uneven pounding of my frantic heart. It matched the heartbeat in my chest as I watched. The running seemed to last forever; like I had no destination in mind. But of course I did. I watched myself tear through the thick shrubs and prickles, drawing blood with each step as they ripped through my own flesh. The clothes were damaged further but I could see that nothing mattered. I ran but I always looked back. Why, you ask. I have no idea.

I knew what was coming up next and I braced myself. The edge was not easy to spot but I was all but a newcomer to the site. With one last look at the rising sun before me, I felt myself unhook my feet off the solid ground and fall. The falling didn’t seem to last forever as I watched it this time. But I remember it had felt like it was never going to end. As my head touched the water, dark oblivion obscuring my vision, the memory blurred to an end. What left was there for me to watch? There was nothing left. I was dead.

The next memory I choose is of myself standing on that very edge watching as helicopters, boats and divers scoured the dark waters for something; me, to be exact. But I knew they wouldn’t find me. I was dead. And I could feel how far away my decomposing body was from them. I chuckled at their attempts. The lights threatened to blind me but I simply released short chortles of laughter. They searched for days. They didn’t find anything.

Now, I’m watching my own funeral. There is no body, thus no coffin – just a headstone with my name, date of birth and date of death. There’s hardly anyone there. I had expected as much.

The last scene I watch is the present. It’s of my own mother. She’s lying with her head placed on an unfamiliar pillow. Her pillow is a fading burgundy with white embroidered flowers near the edge but this one was plain white. She’s clearly in a hospital. I read her chart at the foot of her bed. She’s ninety-three years old. I don’t bother to check why she’s in this dingy hospital.

I look at her instead. Her face is decorated with wrinkles, so are her arms and legs. Her hair hangs loose to her shoulders, silvery-grey and wispy. Her eyes are milkier than I remember. But she still looks the same. The tube in her chest sickens me but her chart says it helps her breathe. There is no other person in the room and its clear there is no other person left. Her walls and bedside table aren’t decorated with bouquets of floors or ‘Get Well Soon’ cards. She’s clearly alone. The beeping I had easily droned out in the background gradually slows to a crawl and I knew what that meant. I watch as her weak body musters up enough energy for another breath but also to open her aged lips. She chokes out a name. My name.

My actions are paused for minutes until after my mother breathes her last breath and smiles her last smile. With a final galumph, her heart falters and she is left motionless. I look at her face one last time before I turn my attention elsewhere. A slight grin on my mother’s aged face brings one to my own.

Someone once told me that each death never goes by forgotten.

They were right.