His Dying Time

       The dim morning light softly entered Mr. Emit Gniyd's apartment at approximately 6:15 A.M. A faint, cobalt blue wave of drifting luminescence washed the place indiscriminately, serenely adorning it with a certain aura of romanticism it had never owned before. The day was Saturday, though it could've easily been a Sunday just as well. The test results from the biopsy were lying on the kitchen counter.

      A small package of brand new razor blades was lying on the coffee table, and alongside the ashtray, a thin piece of paper with a few lines written on it glowed distinctively as it shined away. The sliding balcony door was pushed open, subsequently allowing for the salty winds of the southwest to gradually make its existence more conspicuous as it blew past the lifeless objects around the residence. 

      The furniture decorating the apartment looked as one big shadowy unit; a large asymmetrical silhouette that physically existed exclusively around the edges of the various rooms, silently protruding into the space that surrounded Mr. Emit Gniyd's scrawny anatomy, like a coral reef cave surrounds the rambling fish.

      It was then, at around 7:30 A.M., that Emit broke away from his stance and dragged himself to the nearest sofa. Upon sinking on the velvety surface, his muscles briefly succumbed to the pleasures of pure relaxation. He dropped the pen and lit a cigarette in order to fully exploit such a sporadic chance at peace. He basked in the fathoms of cold, thick silence. Framed photos of children playing with a tall, robust man in military uniform blinked from the sombre depths of a bookcase that was standing beside him. He stared at the pictures and smiled as he momentarily slipped into a state of reverie. Eyes wide open, yet his gaze lost in time.

"Untitled." Whitley, England - Andrew McGeechan

     Suddenly, the phone on the far end of the countertop across from the kitchen sink rang without quell. Emit was then forced to return from his daydream. The vexing plead of that plastic monster was ignored, as it had been ignored invariably throughout the past week. He then turned his attention to the coffee table in quite a special manner, as if somehow, that coffee table had been his only real focal point all along.

      He extended his arm and took hold of the razor blades. He unwrapped the small, rectangular knives and stared at them as they fanned out on the palm of his left hand. The stainless steel glared as his hand trembled. Emit was growing weaker with each passing day. The pharmacy bottles were all empty and the medicine had proved to be useless as the pain grew more intense. 

      The coughing made him feel like a feeble old man. He despised such sensation with the passion of a thousand moors. His shoulders were now a vestige of what once was a powerful man. On the other hand, his mind, unlike his overall physical appearance, remained strong; maybe even outstandingly strong for a man who had to incorporate the word adenocarcinoma to his lexicon just 3 months ago. Emit was a devoted family leader, a loving individual. He was a strong man indeed. His conviction, however, laid somewhere else at this point in time - somewhere around that coffee table, to be more specific.

      Emit picked a single razor blade and stood up with evident determination. He walked to the kitchen and read the case review one more time: 

"CT scans of the abdomen confirmed multiple bony lesions in T7-8 and L3, suggestive of metastatic disease without evidence of further metastases. CT scan of the chest showed a 3 × 2.5 cm lobulated mass, located in the superior segment of the left upper lobe. There was also a 3 mm nodule in the posterior segment of the right upper lobe. CT scan-guided bone needle biopsy was performed, diagnosing metastatic adenocarcinoma in the vertebral body of T7."

      Apparently, the path had been set. He didn't want to drag his family with him any longer.

      He squeezed the thin leaf of paper and crumpled it to a tiny ball. His hands were like fire. The case review was at once destroyed. Emit was convinced; he was determined. He approached the sink and worked the faucet. He then picked the razor blade with both his thumb and pointer finger and proceeded to twist his left wrist so that it would face him directly. He wasn't even shaking. He placed the blade on top of his now white-greenish skin and looked up. 

      The phone rang. He didn't pay attention to it. His breathing was erratically increasing. His heartbeat metronomically increased as the air blew by. He squeezed the blade and then shoved it against his wrist, tilting it so to make a precise swiping motion across the skin-patch. Blood dripped over the kitchen sink. The water washed the crimson liquid as it fell from Emit's arching knuckles. Tears were falling from his eyes. Not a single word was uttered. 

      The phone rang. He shuffled to it and suddenly gained perspective of what had happened. He looked at his wrist and then cried in desperation. He dropped the razor blade and then, just then, the pain began to conquer his body. Time was no longer real. Life was no longer real. It all looked as if he was about to rise from a deep nightmare. How much longer did he have to stay there? Why is this taking so long!?

      It was then, at approximately 8:30 A.M., that Emit pulled a drawer open and grabbed a kitchen knife, stabbing himself in the stomach with one powerful blow. It was then, at 8:32 A.M., that Emit, upon feeling the icy iron strobe slash through his torso, hurried to the balcony, and with much determination, decided to jump.

      The police rushed Emit's apartment, where he lived with his wife, Cynthia, at around 8:47 A.M. Upon inspecting the residence thoroughly, a note, along with an old pair of dog-tags, was found. It had been left on top of the coffee table. The note simply read: "I'm sorry. I love you with all my heart."