77. Deathbed Conversions

There’s something about water that I’ve always liked. It’s just so … Zen. We are creatures born of the water. Our bodies are made of the water, and we must constantly replenish it or die. I guess it’s no surprise that I’ve chosen the water to be my final resting place. Back in to the sea from whence I came to allow the next generation to take over the earth.

I could see the audience start to silently pour in, filling the bleachers around my naked body. The sterile white room would’ve been in sharp contrast if I could hear their movements. The younger me would’ve been embarrassed, but my time for such foolishness has long since past. I welcomed their eager eyes.

Somehow the air always smells fresher at the surface. A muffled ringing filled my ears, a side effect from a world of noise. My only solace was the rhythmic movement of my lungs magnified by the water. I closed my eyes and bright flashes of color danced on my lids. Reds, whites, and greens they were always flashing and changing, like I could never look directly at them because they didn’t really exist.

When I opened my eyes again, the auditorium was packed. My son moved about the stage as he addressed the crowd. The sound barrier protected me as he caused the crowd to clap and cheer with approval. The overhead displays flickered to life with images of my birth. This was the first time I’ve seen the video my son made of me. My elementary years passed by just as fast the second time as they did the first. The screen focused on my middle school years when I first discovered a hidden fort in the woods. It was an old tornado shelter from the age before ours. I spent months getting the Internet setup in it. I had found an old projector in the trash and soon my friends and I had a place to spend all of our free time. We could still be part of the city, even so far out in the woods.

The images showed me sitting on old lumpy with a beer in my hand. High school seemed like a distant memory. Watching images and videos of all the parties and of all the times I passed out on that bed. It was like I was watching someone else’s life. I tried to focus on a single party, just a single event, but it just blurred away from me, like the colorful lights. An old obscure song dominated my head. The moments not captured on film, the moments I laid on that bed, hiding from the world. Those moments that I could never share, those are the memories I could hold on to.

My eyes jarred open as sound poured into my sphere. I realized that I’d been asleep, or unconscious. What was the difference anyway? The drugs must be working which means I didn’t have much longer. My son walked over to me. The audience hushed.

“What insights would you like to pass on?” He asked like a stranger.

I took a moment to organize my thoughts. All those years I lived in constant noise and I’d never really had a moment to myself, to just reflect.

“I’ve learned in these long 30 years, that a moment in silence, true silence, the kind you can only achieve when you’re alone, is worth a lifetime of noise.”

The crowd broke out into a roaring of cheering and applause. My son and executioner looked down at me and turned off the microphone. He leaned close and whispered “I love you dad”.

My eyes watered up. I smiled at him. “I love you too, I’m so proud of you.”

He raised the sound barrier and I went to sleep.

© Chris Richards 2009