Undream the Echoes
I am a dead man
Liam
10.05.2004
I am sitting in my car alone, staring out the window with a blank expression on my face. The car isn’t on and I don’t plan on going anywhere; I’m just sitting here. The rain is coming down in thick white sheets, beating on the hoot of the car viciously and filling my eardrums with a constant pounding noise.
I remain still and listen to the rain. I suddenly remember something I learned in elementary school, that the earth’s water never runs out because it keeps replenishing itself. They called it the water cycle or whatever. When our teacher told us this, someone in the back of the class laughed and said something about the water we drank during gym class could have been the same water that was in a dinosaur’s piss. I remember the kid got in trouble for saying the word piss and got sent to the principal’s office, then they called my mom and I was grounded – oh shit, that kid was totally me. Damn. I guess I was either really obnoxious or really awesome when I was in first grade.
My hair is still soaked from when I ran across the parking lot to get to my car. A droplet of water drips from one of my curls and splatters on my lap. I stare at it and think, That water is from dinosaur piss. That water will be on this world forever. It will never leave, it will never die. My children will one day drink this water and their children will too and so will all of their children. That water is what connects all of humanity with each other and with everything else. We borrow it from the earth and when we die, the water returns to the water cycle, and it will float into the sky as a cloud and then descend in a raindrop and become one with the sea, and then finally it will reunite with the sky, only to do it all over again. Up, down, up, down; a never ending cycle. Water is immortal.
I wonder if life is like this. Maybe the idea of heaven and hell is all wrong – maybe, instead of dying and being sent to the afterlife, your soul stays here, like water. Maybe your soul is given to a new person, or maybe you become a tree, or a star, or an insect, or the ocean. Maybe we’re all as immortal as water.
Suddenly I am sickened by this idea of immortality. Immortality is a lie, nothing more than a stupid dream invented by wishful thinkers. The fact is that everyone has to die someday; that is one rule that no one in all of history has ever broken. We are blessed with a moment of life and then we’re dead forever and ever. It doesn’t matter how fucking unfair it is. If it happens, it happens, and you can’t do shit about it. Death is the king of all of us; death doesn’t care. It comes along whenever it pleases and rips you apart from this world without a second’s hesitation. It doesn’t matter if you’re only twenty-nine years old and you’re not even halfway done living yet. It doesn’t care if you still want to have kids and watch them grow up. And death certainly doesn’t give a fuck that Elle won’t be able to survive without you. Yeah, death is a real fucking asshole.
The hospital looms before me. I want to leave this parking lot but I simply can’t tear my eyes away from the large grey building. I walked into there a sick man, and walked out of there a dying man. They said that the tumor in my heart had been benign and caused no harm, which was why it had gone by unnoticed. But then the cancerous cells spread to my liver. And my lungs. And my stomach. It doesn’t really seem like a lot but apparently these tumors aren’t so benign and the fuckhead doctors aren’t capable of removing tumors from all of these organs while keeping me alive. Basically they just told me I’m done for, sorry dude, that sucks. Isn’t it ironic? My heart is killing me, of all things. I could have died from old age, I could have been shot, I could have been hit by a car, or I could have eaten really, really bad seafood…but no, fate decided that my heart would do me in.
And they have no fucking clue how much time I’ve got left, which leads me to the conclusion that my doctor is the most useless piece of shit ever. The fact that I don’t know when I’m going to die bothers me but then again, I realize that it’s the same for everyone else: We’re all dying as each second passes by and nobody has a fucking clue when their time is up. So that makes me feel a little better. But not much.
I don’t know what to do with myself. What can I do? I am dying. Doing the usual things I used to do all seem stupid, like going out to a nice restaurant or going to the gym or walking my dog. What’s the point? What am I going to achieve? It’s all going to end the same way. No matter what I do I’m going to end up in a coffin six feet underground.
“Coffee.” I don’t realize I’ve said this out loud and I jump at the sound of my voice. But the voice in my head agrees: I need coffee. I start the car and drive out of the parking lot, trying not to notice the dark shadow the hospital casts over me as I pass by.
When I’m at the café, I am very distracted. I can’t stop fidgeting and moving around in my seat. The knowledge that I am dying is a burden that weighs down my thoughts, and I can’t think clearly while the statement I AM A DEAD MAN keeps running through my mind again and again. I need to get it out of my system before I go insane.
I snatch a napkin and take a pen out of my front pocket. In scribbled handwriting I write I have cancer. I am dying. I am a dead man. I have cancer. I am dying. I am a dead man. I am dead. I am dead.
And there it is. That’s my secret. It’s out of my head and onto paper. I consider tearing up the napkin and throwing it out, but I know that won’t make my secret go away. Instead I fold it up neatly and put it in my pocket, telling myself that in case I ever forget, I can just read it again. I had thought I would want to forget it but now I know I really don’t. I want to be able to pull out this napkin and remind myself that I am dying, so I better go out in the world and start living.
Liam
11.07.2004
One month passes and I still haven’t told Elle, and I do not plan to do so anytime soon. However I feel that I need to tell someone other than a napkin. Which is why I’m here today. I move around in the leather chair uncomfortably, which squeaks in protest against my weight.
The psychiatrist walks in and sits down across from my with what’s supposed to be a comforting grin on his face, though I am far from comforted. He has gray hair that sticks up all over the place and he’s wearing glasses that would probably look better on a woman. There’s a heavy silence between us.
“Why are you here today, Liam?” the doctor asks.
10.05.2004
I am sitting in my car alone, staring out the window with a blank expression on my face. The car isn’t on and I don’t plan on going anywhere; I’m just sitting here. The rain is coming down in thick white sheets, beating on the hoot of the car viciously and filling my eardrums with a constant pounding noise.
I remain still and listen to the rain. I suddenly remember something I learned in elementary school, that the earth’s water never runs out because it keeps replenishing itself. They called it the water cycle or whatever. When our teacher told us this, someone in the back of the class laughed and said something about the water we drank during gym class could have been the same water that was in a dinosaur’s piss. I remember the kid got in trouble for saying the word piss and got sent to the principal’s office, then they called my mom and I was grounded – oh shit, that kid was totally me. Damn. I guess I was either really obnoxious or really awesome when I was in first grade.
My hair is still soaked from when I ran across the parking lot to get to my car. A droplet of water drips from one of my curls and splatters on my lap. I stare at it and think, That water is from dinosaur piss. That water will be on this world forever. It will never leave, it will never die. My children will one day drink this water and their children will too and so will all of their children. That water is what connects all of humanity with each other and with everything else. We borrow it from the earth and when we die, the water returns to the water cycle, and it will float into the sky as a cloud and then descend in a raindrop and become one with the sea, and then finally it will reunite with the sky, only to do it all over again. Up, down, up, down; a never ending cycle. Water is immortal.
I wonder if life is like this. Maybe the idea of heaven and hell is all wrong – maybe, instead of dying and being sent to the afterlife, your soul stays here, like water. Maybe your soul is given to a new person, or maybe you become a tree, or a star, or an insect, or the ocean. Maybe we’re all as immortal as water.
Suddenly I am sickened by this idea of immortality. Immortality is a lie, nothing more than a stupid dream invented by wishful thinkers. The fact is that everyone has to die someday; that is one rule that no one in all of history has ever broken. We are blessed with a moment of life and then we’re dead forever and ever. It doesn’t matter how fucking unfair it is. If it happens, it happens, and you can’t do shit about it. Death is the king of all of us; death doesn’t care. It comes along whenever it pleases and rips you apart from this world without a second’s hesitation. It doesn’t matter if you’re only twenty-nine years old and you’re not even halfway done living yet. It doesn’t care if you still want to have kids and watch them grow up. And death certainly doesn’t give a fuck that Elle won’t be able to survive without you. Yeah, death is a real fucking asshole.
The hospital looms before me. I want to leave this parking lot but I simply can’t tear my eyes away from the large grey building. I walked into there a sick man, and walked out of there a dying man. They said that the tumor in my heart had been benign and caused no harm, which was why it had gone by unnoticed. But then the cancerous cells spread to my liver. And my lungs. And my stomach. It doesn’t really seem like a lot but apparently these tumors aren’t so benign and the fuckhead doctors aren’t capable of removing tumors from all of these organs while keeping me alive. Basically they just told me I’m done for, sorry dude, that sucks. Isn’t it ironic? My heart is killing me, of all things. I could have died from old age, I could have been shot, I could have been hit by a car, or I could have eaten really, really bad seafood…but no, fate decided that my heart would do me in.
And they have no fucking clue how much time I’ve got left, which leads me to the conclusion that my doctor is the most useless piece of shit ever. The fact that I don’t know when I’m going to die bothers me but then again, I realize that it’s the same for everyone else: We’re all dying as each second passes by and nobody has a fucking clue when their time is up. So that makes me feel a little better. But not much.
I don’t know what to do with myself. What can I do? I am dying. Doing the usual things I used to do all seem stupid, like going out to a nice restaurant or going to the gym or walking my dog. What’s the point? What am I going to achieve? It’s all going to end the same way. No matter what I do I’m going to end up in a coffin six feet underground.
“Coffee.” I don’t realize I’ve said this out loud and I jump at the sound of my voice. But the voice in my head agrees: I need coffee. I start the car and drive out of the parking lot, trying not to notice the dark shadow the hospital casts over me as I pass by.
When I’m at the café, I am very distracted. I can’t stop fidgeting and moving around in my seat. The knowledge that I am dying is a burden that weighs down my thoughts, and I can’t think clearly while the statement I AM A DEAD MAN keeps running through my mind again and again. I need to get it out of my system before I go insane.
I snatch a napkin and take a pen out of my front pocket. In scribbled handwriting I write I have cancer. I am dying. I am a dead man. I have cancer. I am dying. I am a dead man. I am dead. I am dead.
And there it is. That’s my secret. It’s out of my head and onto paper. I consider tearing up the napkin and throwing it out, but I know that won’t make my secret go away. Instead I fold it up neatly and put it in my pocket, telling myself that in case I ever forget, I can just read it again. I had thought I would want to forget it but now I know I really don’t. I want to be able to pull out this napkin and remind myself that I am dying, so I better go out in the world and start living.
Liam
11.07.2004
One month passes and I still haven’t told Elle, and I do not plan to do so anytime soon. However I feel that I need to tell someone other than a napkin. Which is why I’m here today. I move around in the leather chair uncomfortably, which squeaks in protest against my weight.
The psychiatrist walks in and sits down across from my with what’s supposed to be a comforting grin on his face, though I am far from comforted. He has gray hair that sticks up all over the place and he’s wearing glasses that would probably look better on a woman. There’s a heavy silence between us.
“Why are you here today, Liam?” the doctor asks.