Wait and See
by Michael Dell

Byron Locke was going to die.

More specifically, he was going to die at any moment.  He was sure of it.  He 
had known for some time now he would cease to exist on the date in question.  He 
couldn't explain why he knew this, or how this knowledge came into his 
possession, all he knew was it was fact.  He was going to die.

During the preceding days, Byron had taken steps to prepare for his passing.  He 
made sure his will was in order, leaving his humble earthly estate to charity, 
for he had no familial commitments.  Byron informed the office not to expect him 
on Wednesday.  He contrived some plausible excuse, knowing full well Wednesday, 
in actuality, would be the day of his death.

Byron was so resigned to his fate, the arrival of Wednesday, the black 
Wednesday, stirred within him no sense of dread.  He would die.  All living 
things die.  It made perfect sense to him.  He had received no joy from life.  
His departure was judged a welcome relief from the mundane.  Peaceful slumber 
found Byron when he laid his head upon his pillow Tuesday evening.  

The night did not bring death.  He was still alive.  His eyes had opened on the 
fateful Wednesday morning.  His bedroom walls were still there.  It would seem 
everything remained as it was the night before, except gone was the sense of 
defeated resignation within Byron's being.  It had been replaced by desperation.  
He wanted to live!  And for the first time since his mind had foretold his 
misfortune, Byron Locke was scared.

He no longer wished to die.  But it was Wednesday.  He was going to die on 
Wednesday.  There could be no escaping it.  But what if there were?  What if he 
didn't give Death the chance?  'After all,' thought Byron, 'I made it through 
the night.  If I were to die of natural causes, than surely I would have been 
taken in the night.  It must be an event of some sort that's to take my life. 
Some tragic accident.'            

The daily routine was deemed too dangerous.  The common act of shaving 
threatened disaster.  A slip of the hand could produce a cut, however small, 
incapable of clotting or prone to some injurious infection.  The simple process 
of showering was fraught with untold hazards.  Even the idea of brushing his 
teeth brought to mind a plethora of pernicious pitfalls.  No.  He would stay 
right where he was.  He was safest in bed.  It was only one day.  He would wait 
it out.

Byron pulled the covers tight.  Too tight.  Fear of asphyxiation made him loosen 
his grip.  He inspected the ceiling and surrounding walls for any potential 
dangers.  All seemed secure.  He should be safe.  Then a frightful thought 
seized hold.  What if the ceiling were to collapse?  Perhaps his fate all along 
was to be lying in bed, afraid to leave its protection, allowing a crack in the 
plaster to strike the deathblow.  There did appear to be a line of some sort in 
the ceiling directly above his head.  It could be a crack.  He squinted 
confirmation.  Byron contemplated the options at his disposal.  Moving the bed 
was out of the question.  He wasn't wearing socks.  A rogue splinter from the 
floor could infiltrate his foot and fester, or he could somehow trip and suffer 
a cataclysmic concussion.  It simply would not do.  He carefully crawled around 
the bed so as to reverse his position, placing his head where his legs had been 
and his feet under the suspicious scratch.  There remained the nightmare of a 
rather ghastly broken extremity.  Byron rolled on his side and pulled his legs 
forward to safety, mirroring a precise fetal position.  But he could not, under 
any circumstances, bring himself to leave the bed.  

Seeing it from this new vantage cast his dreary room in a dramatic light, the 
consideration of which brought a painful crick.  Byron stretched his ailing 
neck.  A severe popping sound sparked wild eyes.  How could he have been so 
careless?  He had often relieved the pressure of his vertebrae in such a manner, 
but why take the risk today of all days?  He could have snapped his spinal 
column.  Movement of any kind needed to be restricted to a bare minimum.  
Motionless, he waited.

Byron was beginning to feel hungry.  Food was out of the question.  Even if he 
had some morsel of sustenance with him, he would never dare invite choking.  
Food was of no use to him now.  All that mattered was time, the passage of time.  

Strength was drawn from knowing each minute elapsed reduced Death's window of 
opportunity.  It came as quite a shock when Byron stumbled upon the opposing 
view of the situation, that each passing minute brought him closer to Death's 
touch.  A great chill swept through his bones.  There need not be some fatal 
accident.  His health could falter at any moment.  His making it through the 
night could have been some cosmic fluke.  Whether in the safety of his bed or 
not, it was still going to happen.    

Byron became obsessed with time.  He couldn't resist the temptation of the 
bedside clock.  Would this be the minute he died?  Or the next?  How about now?  
Or now?  Or now?  Or now?  Now?  Now?  Now?  When?  Would he even know his 
moment of death or would the act of dying itself rob him of that information? 
How could he know his last moment was his last moment unless he could look back 
on it in reflection?  And doesn't death extinguish thought?  He tried to clear 
his mind and simulate death.  He closed his eyes.  No, that's not death.  That's 
blindness.  Death isn't darkness.  Death is an absence of darkness, an absence 
of light.  Death was an absence of everything.    

Still, there had to be something.  There would come a moment, whether today or 
in fifty years, there would come a moment when he'd cease to be.  What was in 
that exact moment?  Life one second, death the next.  What was that moment, that 
first empty moment?  And if death is an absence, a hideous void, would there 
even be such a moment?  If death rendered him no longer capable of perception, 
then wouldn't death itself be nullified as a result?  Had that moment already 
occurred?  If he would be dead four hundred years from now, in a sense, was he 
not already dead?  Thought.  He still thought.  He feared death.  This 
recognition in and of itself proved life.        

Only when he ceased to think would he cease to live.  Would his last thought be 
of death?  If not, what would it be?  He didn't want his final flicker of mortal 
consciousness to be spent regarding the fit of his trousers or ruminating upon 
the unpleasant taste of yesterday's meal.  Worse yet, what if some horribly 
insipid song or phrase were at that very moment caught in his subconscious so he 
didn't even realize he was listening to it until it was too late?  Almost at 
once there announced a barrage of preposterous melodies.  He slammed his eyes 
shut and expelled the offending verses.  He began to quietly sing a selection of 
his own.  A soundtrack of his choosing would accompany his death.  

Was it enough?  Shouldn't his final thought be more meaningful than a musical 
flight of fancy?  There was, of course, only one solution.  Love.  His last 
thought should be of love.  It should be of Rebecca.  She was the only true love 
Byron had ever known.  Why couldn't she be there now to comfort him?  It was no 
use.  Man is born alone so must man die alone.  Ah, Rebecca.  Her image would 
provide solace during this confounding crucible.  He lacked the courage to claim 
her in life, but he'd own her in death.  She was fitting of the honor.  If he 
were to die, he wanted Rebecca to be the final utterance from his lips and her 
face the last frame of his mind.  'Rebecca' he whispered.  Yet he did not die.  
'Rebecca... Rebecca... Rebecca!'  He began to chant the name, the volume 
building with each sacred syllable.  'Rebecca!'           

What was that?  In his chest!  Byron had felt a fluttering in his chest.  He 
freed his arms from their wraps and frantically searched for a pulse within his 
right wrist.  There.  It was steady.  Each beat was strong and rhythmic, a 
pounding metronome of good health.  It wouldn't last.  At some point in the next 
few hours, the machine would fail.  Byron counted the beats in his head.  He did 
this for one minute, marking the time with the clock, and then counted again for 
another minute.  There were eight more beats.  He counted again.  The total 
increased by twelve.  His pulse!  His maddening pulse!  He would curse it some 
nights as he felt it beneath his cheek while trying to sleep.  It was always a 
reminder of mortality.  Thump thump.  Thump thump.  Thump thump.  One two.  One 
two.  One... two?  What happened?  Why was the distance between beats greater 
that time?  First it seemed his pulse was racing now he was sure it was ready to 
halt completely.

It had stopped!  His pulse had stopped!  How could he know his pulse had stopped 
if it had really stopped?  He must find it!  Beat!  Beat!  What about his 
breathing?  It was getting shallow.  His chest was feeling constricted.  He 
inhaled deeply.  Was it always this much trouble to breath?  What if he forgot 
how?  Was it possible to forget how to breathe?  It was involuntary.  He 
relaxed.  Why wasn't he breathing?  Air!  He needed air!

Byron was trembling beneath the strain.  Perspiration flowed freely from fearful 
pores.  What if the pulmonary problems and respiratory woes weren't really his 
most nefarious transgressors?  What if they were devious distractions, 
prohibiting him from recognizing his ultimate undoing?  As Byron monitored the 
stamina of his heart and actuated the labors of his lungs, it occurred to him 
another organ, say the otherwise useless appendix, was set to burst.  His liver 
could be on the verge of rupturing bile throughout his internal cavity.  Taxed 
blood vessels could be readying to tear; both kidneys shutting down; his brain 
hemorrhaging.  All these catastrophes were stirring silently beneath the 
surface.  And there was nothing he could do.  He was a prisoner of his own body.  
At any moment it could see fit to release him.  At any moment...

But if he could only make it through the day!  Tomorrow would be different.  He 
had to make it through the day, only a few more hours.  What were hours?  Hours 
were no different than seconds, seconds no different than hours.  He only had to 
make it through the day.  Then what were days?  Wednesday was no different than 
Thursday, Thursday no different than Wednesday.  

Byron Locke coiled his body, making himself as small as possible, his muscles 
taut, his flesh salted, his eyes focused on the unknown, hearing only the 
mocking drum of his heart.  

And he waited.