Short Story 7.2.04

Two pairs of shoes clicked loudly on the polished tiles, and the repulsive odor of antiseptic with a faint hint of blood hung heavily in the air. A solemn-looking doctor walked down the long white corridor, followed by a tall man with dark hair and sad eyes. There were doors on each side, most of which were closed, but a few were left open, revealing their inhabitants. Some were lively and energetic, and some were slowly withering away, but they were all hooked up to various machines. The man glanced into a room a nurse was exiting to see a boy of no more than nineteen years with tubes and wires connecting him to a monitor in the corner. A little girl clung to his neck, wailing and sniffling, and a middle-aged couple stood by the foot of the bed, each with an arm around the other's waist and a free hand wiping away tears.

The man turned and kept walking.

They turned down another corridor, then stopped at a closed door. The doctor turned the knob and pushed the door open, then gestured for the man to enter.

Inside, an elderly woman was propped up slightly in the hospital bed. Her face was worn and weary, and far too thin than it should have been. But a soft smile rested there.

She had been sleeping peacefully, but when the door opened, her eyelids lifted, uncovering a pair of pale, old eyes. The smile remained.

Sucking in a breath, the man pushed through the doorway, and walked slowly to the bedside. Behind him, the doctor pulled the door closed, shaking his head with a sigh.

The man lowered himself into a chair by the bedside. Ticking from the clock and beeping from the monitors echoed throughout the room, but there were no words spoken.

At last, he opened his mouth to say something, anything, just so he wouldn't have to hear the mocking of the machines and the clock, warning him of what was inevitable, but the woman cut him off. Her voice was soft and it cracked often, but he heard.

"You know, I used to always envision myself here. I'd always try to think of what I would say. Something that would inspire people and wrap everything up, just like in the old movies. But now that I'm here, there is nothing more to add."

He smiled gently and reached for the woman's hand. "What's the secret to life?"

"Life doesn't have secrets, Johnny."

"Then what's the meaning of life?" he asked, rubbing his thumb over the back of her frail, bony hand.

"Which one?"

He laughed. A bitter, rueful laugh. "Why are we here? What purpose are we to fulfill?" He paused, looking down at their hands and choking on the words. "Why are we born, only to suffer and then die?"

She was silent for a while, and he thought she might have fallen asleep, but when he looked up, she was staring at him intently with her old, wise eyes. "The meaning of life, Johnny, is not to die, nor to fulfill a purpose. The meaning of life is to live. To love. To be." She sqeezed his hand firmly on the last word.

"But that is--"

"Too simple?" she finished his thought. "My dear, no one ever said it was some big, guarded secret. I told you life has none."

"But... why?" His voice cracked, and he pushed back the tears that rose. "Why do we have to die?"

"Because we have finished living," she answered simply.

"No," he whispered forcefully, his tears fighting to be released, choking him. "Please, no...."

"Live, Johnny. Live." She squeezed his hand again, gently this time, and he felt her loosen her grip. But he held on tightly, now with two hands, and he buried his face in them.

The droning of the machine and the steady ticking of the clock smothered his sobs. Two nurses and the doctor entered the room, hurrying over to the bedside, but the man sighed, forcing back the rest of the tears, and released her hand. Placing it on the bed gently, he lingered for a moment then stood, though somewhat shakily. He exited without a word and without turning back, passing a woman with fair hair and sad eyes. She glanced into the room through the opened door, then turned and continued following the doctor down the white corridor, her heels clicking against the white tiles.