Never Truly Alone
The rooms sterile scent wafted through Richard’s scenes. It was a constant reminder of the hospital room that had become his world; the clock and its faint glow a persistent mocking red, numbers that would crawl by towards the deep hours of morning.
Forty-Seven Years, a life lived and still, so many things that would never be done now – it was a dwindling flicker as he lay there on that bed perfectly still, a rhythmic ‘Beep-Beep-Beep’ of the heart monitor, it acted like a macabre metronome counting down to silence.
It had been the same that day as the past two – not one person; not a single one had come, none, save for the nurses; but as kind as they were, they were still fleeting shadows; Richard had been alone so long it had felt like an eternity and that was sharper than any illness, that sense of loneliness.
Tears; hot and bitter fell down the side of his face, within the crease of his nose, tracing paths along his stubble; Death, he knew, was not just knocking, it was already in the room with him, an invisible, heavy presence pressing down on his chest making each breath a laborious, shallow struggle – he was tired, so terribly tired.
It was amidst this suffocating sense of despair though, this raw, tear-soaked surrender that a sound caught his ear; a subtle whisper that caused his head to turn, a soft scuff of a shoe on the linoleum, a sound that shouldn’t have been there, his eyes, as heavy-lidded as they were, flickered open as he looked to the door.
Stood there framed against the faint light from the corridor was a man.
He was tall, dressed in simple, dark clothes, a hood drawn up and over his head casting a shadow over his face – when he moved, he didn’t move with any sense of urgency, but with a quiet, unhurried grace that was simply out of place, and with a slow, deliberate approach, came near Richard’s bed, pulling the empty chair beside it – the one that had remained untouched for weeks, and simply sat himself down.
There was no immediate words spoken; he simply sat there, a silent vigil as Richard, for the first time in hours felt a strange calm settle over him; this visitor emanated no malice, no fear, only an immense quiet understanding “Rought journey isn’t it?”
The man’s voice was soft, like a low murmur that resonated a comforting depth, like a distant roll of thunder on a warm summers eve “It’s always a little disorientating, losing your bearing towards the end”
Richard could only manage a weak nod, his throat simply felt too tight for words.
A soft grin could be glimpsed beneath the hood, not full covered by shadow “Remember that trip to the Creak; fishing with your father?” the man continued, his voice steady as if he was recalling a shared memory “That one you lost you tackle, then found it again full of better things?”
Richard thought for a moment, his brow furrowed slightly ‘Fishing?’ he hadn’t been on fishing in such a long time, and with his father ?…, that was so many years ago; yet the question, the casual tone was disarmingly familiar – it wasn’t a question that was expecting an answer, but offering a shared human connection
“Or that time you tried to make your mothers favourite recipe and…, well…., it turned out inedible” there was a faint, almost imperceptible chuckle that escaped the shadowed hood “She still loved it though, didn’t she; because you tried”
The memory was faint, yet warm, it stirred within Richard – his mother’s laugh, the way she had ruffled his hair declaring it the best effort she had ever seen – that tiny, fragile smile turned his lips up, the first genuine smile in days.
It felt like a precious gift.
Silence walk settle between them again; comfortable…, profound; the beeping seemed less urgent, the cold grip less suffocating; Richard looked towards the figure beside him, and gave a slow nod as if accepting as tears still fell down along his cheeks, though, not of despair; but of a profound sense of relief that he was not alone.
“I…, I think I am ready now” Richard whispered – the words rasping against his dry throat, but clear, the truth, finally spoken aloud
The hooded man slid the chair closer, leaning forwards and reaching forwards – his hand emerging from the dark sleeve, gently taking Richards frail, trebling hand; the touch itself was surprisingly warm, grounding.
“That is good” he murmured softly to Richard “It went by without you noticing Richard; all that fear, all that pain; in your last moments, they were happy, you was happy”
As Richard’s last breath seeped out – a gentle sigh, there was a final, peaceful smile that graced his lips, a quiet acknowledgement of shared warmth and quiet comfort – the machine beside him already flatlining, a long, broken tone that echoed within the silent, empty room drawing the nearby nurse.
Days later, that same hooded figure stood alone at the iron gates of the cemetery; the wintery air was crisp, carrying the scent of damp earth and a freshly cut grass; his gaze was fixed forwards, towards a small gathering.
A handful of faces that Richard likely would have recognised that stood around an open grave, a simple wooden casket being lowered.
The figure, fingers curling with subtle cracks that only he would notice as they gripped the railing – he watched the proceedings with deep-set eyes, an ancient, knowing gaze.
He would remain there for a long time; even as mourners left; watching…, listening as the soft clatter of a spade began to fill the grave with earth; a silently lullaby, then; with a quiet turn, he ventured away, his work was done; he would let Richard rest, finally, truly in peace.
Written By: Westley H.
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