My Dear Harbinger Of Death
"I'm sorry to inform you that Mr. Moorley has not made it out of surgery."
Whoosh
The wind proved to be the only source of sound, as all three parties went silent after the final words were spoken.
Like a judge had cast its final verdict and refused any subsequent defendants, Jacob Moorley's wife and son had froze after hearing the final decision.
Jacob Moorley, a man they had spoken to only a few hours ago, a man who they'd shared smiles and laughs with right before he went under, was gone.
'I'll be right back; it'll only take a second.'
His last words rang through her mind as Emily Moorley, his wife of 15 years, remembered the last look he had on his face.
The warm smile assured her that everything would be alright and that he'd make it out of his ninth successive surgery, just as the last.
As she felt the streams of warm liquid quickly start to cascade down her face, her mind remembered the presence of the unfamiliar man in front of her.
A Doctor.
He was Jacob's personal doctor, and Emily's mind quickly remembered that besides Jacob's own words of encouragement, there were others that day.
A similar set of sounds rang out, promising that they'd do their best, that they would make sure that he pulled through.
She remembered the happy faces as they said that, the confidence that rolled off of them in waves and fell onto her, calming her from her panic attack.
The lines between her memory and reality blurred as Emily's vision became distorted; she didn't wish to recall that the faces from that day didn't match the current, nor that the voice that had assured her.
That had promised her that everything would be alright was lighter and chippier than the one right in front of her.
No, instead, she chose to remember the pure white coat, the wide-toed boots, and the familiar room that had hummed with the sterile scent of disinfectant.
She recalled the Fluorescent lights flickered that had overhead, casting a cold glow on the pale walls
"YOU!!!"
She ignored the consoling hand her son had placed on her, utilizing strength forlorn to those in their 70s to rapidly stand up and look the man who took her husband in the eye.
"LIAR! YOU SAID HE'D BE FINE, YOU SAID HE'D COME OUT JUST AS QUICKLY AS HE WENT IN. WHAT HAPPENED TO THE ASSURANCES, TO THE PROMISES—"
Knocking himself out of his stupor both at his father's death and his mother's sudden burst of energy, Jonathan reached out and wrapped his arms around his aged mother, hoping his familiar touch would calm her down.
"M-MOM, MOM!!"
He spat out the words as his voice involuntarily hiccuped, and the 32-year-old man wrapped around his mother, his shoulders shaking as silent sobs racked his body
It seemed his actions worked as Emily forgot all about the doctor in front of her, putting her shoulder over the big back that was rapidly moving up and down at irregular intervals.
Soon her voice joined his as she kept repeating, "It's N-Not Fair. Why Him? WHy HIM!!"
Mother and son are mourning a death in front of the usually pale hospital, a place where many dream to go, a place acclaimed as the best in the nation.
And in front of all this was that same doctor, with the same neutral expression on his face as he stood still, accepting the words against him without a single word.
.
.
"That was how it went."
Flicker
He watched as the small flame constantly danced upon the lighter, how it moved from side to side, threatening to be extinguished by the winds, but persisting even through its eventual demise.
He raised it, causing it to meet the end of his cancer stick before beginning to burn the damn thing.
Next, the burning monstrosity was brought up to his mouth, and just before it could reach him, he heard,
"Again? You should be a patient, not a doctor if you plan on killing yourself."
He looked at the exasperated look of the woman he'd known for not too long, watching as her curly short auburn hair was disheveled and at how her brown eyes scrunched up connected with her forehead, forming her trademark judgmental face riddled with an unfamiliar emotion.
He studied her, noting her skinnier than he remembered arms before turning around, ignoring her and the quick "Hey!" that followed.
Instead, he focused on the inhalation, on the quick sharpness that he felt at the back of his throat like it was being pricked by countless needles.
He kept the smoke there as the pricking subsided over time, revealing a relaxing warmth to his cold innards.
The man recalled the guest he had in the room—someone he let know a secret that could potentially backfire.
'Really unlike me.'
But somehow, through his distrustfulness, he knew she wouldn't say anything.
'Keline Clark, 28 years old, has Guillain-Barré syndrome and pneumonia. Ran down with it 3 days ago and was admitted to the hospital, was diagnosed, and quickly transferred over here for medical treatment, where we found that she had contracted pneumonia.'
He recalled the real reason why her case was fatal,
'The Pneumonia makes it so that our normal medications aren't as effective or downright dangerous to prescribe to her. Over the past few days, she's experienced rapid muscle weakness and tingling, and yesterday she lost the ability to walk, signifying that it's gotten to her legs.'
He exhaled, getting himself enveloped in the white world as his vision momentarily went hazy.
'Unofficially dubbed, a Lost Cause.'
He turned around, noting that the snarky woman had been unusually silent, not pestering him as she always did when he smoked.
The second his eyes landed on her, he spotted the woman bringing a cigarette, a very high-quality brand she wouldn't be able to get, to the tip of her mouth.
As he spotted the familiar brand on the box sitting on his sheet, his mind processed what happened.
"Nope."
He dashed over with unusual enthusiasm and plucked the thing out of her hand, putting it back into the box and stuffing said box into his corner pocket.
"Aw, come on."
"No, I have years that I can shave off, you…"
In a swift motion, while replying to her, he walked over to the table in front of her bed and grabbed her medical report.
'That's Odd.'
The paper was already flipped to the page he needed, describing her results and her ETL, Expected Time Left.
But not thinking anything of it the man let his eyes land on the results.
"4 Days."
The doctor's eyes darted between Keline's medical report and the girl herself. His fingers tapped nervously on the edge of the clipboard, revealing his inner turmoil.
That's what they predicted she had left, based on the rate, severity of her illness, and its progression, they surmised that she had 4 days left.
He looked up, seeing the bitter smile the woman had on her face as she looked down at the blank white sheets, not meeting his eyes.
While still looking away in a small voice, she said, "You didn't forget your gift, did you."
His eyes darted to the corner of her bed where the blue metallic shone, reminding him of what he got her hours after they learned that she couldn't walk.
A picker-upper.
He put a hand to his face as he whipped off his look of surprise from before, realizing that he was the one who handed her the tools to do that!
"You're not supposed to look at medical files without a doctor's permission."
"And doctors are supposed to tell their patients when they are going to die, but the ones here seem too cowardly to adhere to that."
Michael felt implicated, yet her apology softened the blow. He'd expected this—either she'd discover it herself or he'd break the news.
He could picture any of his co-workers doing this, coming in with the results, not wanting to break the news to her, then seeing the grabber, and leaving the report on the table.
Either she'd see it herself, putting them out of a job to do, or he'd come, see it, and tell her himself.
'That's what they expected out of the generous, Michael anyway.'
Still playing his part, he started saying, "You'll—"
"Hey, I found this new mobile monopoly that I thought we could play."
Intentionally or not, she quickly cut him off, showing her the familiar old man adorning his usual can while presenting [Monopoly Go: On the Go!]
He grinned—not the perfunctory smile he was used to giving out, but a full-on grin—while dumping his stick in the trash.
"Don't think just because you're going to die that I'll let you die a winner."
"It's alright, old man. I'll give you something to remember me by. How about four ass whoopings in a row for my parting gift? I'll even be so benevolent as to offer a wager; if you win even one round, I'll tell you about my favorite restaurant."
The sounds of their clashes could be heard for hours on end as the two went through multiple rounds.
In the midst of this, Michael didn't mind using up the PTO he enacted after the fiasco this morning on such a simple thing as this.
.
.
"Someone needs to inform the Baxter family."
He looked around with the same old faces, while they were sitting in the same old room, doing the same old thing.
"All who can't."
Immediate waves upon waves of hands rose as all of his co-workers opted out of the task; unlike in the past, they didn't even give out perfunctory excuses, simply offering words like "You got this", and their usual "Michael can do it.".
Thus, without his hand ever being raised or those who could, ever being called, the meeting room began to return to its usual noise as he listened to the conversations about where they were going to get dinner after their day ended.
'After all, to them, this is simply a job.'
He stood up, collecting his things as he prepared to leave, before walking to the elevator and pressing the lobby button.
'I'll have to delay my visit to Keline.'
Tsk
He picked his head up, looking in the mirror at his usual impassive face, wondering why a hospital even had a mirror in the elevator.
Ding
Unfortunately, his ride ended, and he was presented with the very busy common room of a hospital as famous as theirs.
Quickly making his way over to the front desk and finding out where the Baxter family was, he spotted the group.
And he meant a group.
With four adult women and six adult men, they took up an entire corner of their waiting room.
He got a front-row view of the brightening of their faces once they saw him, a doctor, walking over to them.
His face, involuntary, scrunched up at the first glance. Looks of hope grew on their faces, yet surprisingly, halfway through his walk, it changed.
He no longer saw hope, but…fear?
Quickly making his way over, the man noticed the apprehension they held him with and the wary looks they shot him.
This time It wasn't him who spoke first, but them.
"Are you Doctor Michael?" Their eyes pleading with him for a wish he couldn't grant caused him to feel as if a chunk of his soul was ripped out.
"Yes." He had to ignore the inconvenience that came with that…for his own sake.
"I'm afraid, Benjamin—"
He couldn't finish the sentence without tears bursting, as if this were all but confirmation of a truth they already knew.
Still doing his duties, he continued, "—has succumbed to his illness."
Like always, he offered no words of comfort or excuses for how they did the best they could.
The feedback he'd gotten, albeit messed up and highly simplified, informed him that most grieving patients didn't take kindly to either.
He stood again in the usual storm of sadness, and for the first time, he was thinking of something else.
A pit in the bottom of his stomach, different from the ones he usually felt, twisted around, forcing him to think of the cause.
'I have a bad feeling.'
He really regretted not being able to see Keline right now.
Instead of the usual words that hit his shield of impassivity, he was instead hit with a shield-braking sword passing through his defenses.
"Monster. You monster."
His attention was grabbed by the peculiarity in the woman's accent.
"We'd heard before….we knew the second we saw your face."
Ignoring the turmoil of emotions she was causing inside of him, the woman continued,
"In my home, we call your kind Harbingers of Death, lackeys who bring destruction wherever you go."
The woman who had spoken in an audible whisper just before suddenly raised her tone to that of a deranged old woman,
"YOU CURSED BEING WHO ONLY KNOWS TO BRING DEATH WHEREVER YOU GO, BEGONE RETURN TO THE LORD FOR WHICH YOU SERVE."
At that moment, Michael couldn't say anything, not because he was caught in a stupor or was too shocked.
No, instead, it was a sight that caught his attention.
It was that sight that caused him to infrared his now-bleeding forehead from the cane he'd been whacked with seconds ago.
A long hospital bed was rapidly shuffled through to the emergency room of their hospital, but that was what he saw second.
The first thing that caught his eye was a phone, or more importantly, what was on the phone—a peculiar game.
Monopoly Go: On the Go.
The second was a face, distinctly familiar with a sad smile on its face, of regret and acceptance.
His eyes were drawn to her mouth, and at that moment he deeply regretted knowing how to read lips.
[I love to...eat at...]
"Sir, only permitted surgeons are allowed through these doors."
"Sir, you can't force your way through."
"SECURITY."
.
.
"She hasn't made it Michael."
Standing while his heart dropped and scattered to the floor in pieces, Michael looked out the raining window as his coworker quickly left.
He stayed a bit longer reminiscing before clearing his mind and going down the stairs for the second time in the day.
'Time to do my job.'
A familiar face he'd seen only days ago, Jane Clark, Keline's mother who lived 3 hours away, looking at him with the same look.
The face that was so similar to hers, the voice that worriedly asked, "How is she?" resembling the one he heard yesterday only lacking the harshness.
The same Auburn hair, this time cascading to her shoulders, was not kept at bob length.
Michael bit his tongue and pinched his nails, and not trusting himself to talk currently, he did nothing but shake his head, slow rhythmic movements that signified a reality nobody wanted.
He saw her face change from concern to deviation, before shifting to indifference as she adopted a mask he was used to wearing.
"I-I wish to be alone right now."
With all he was able to do being a nod, Michael walked away, heading to the top office to turn his two weeks in. On the way, he dropped the worthless letter of encouragement in a rarely used trash can.
He ignored the faint whisperings behind his back, pretending to miss the broken voice as Jane whispered, "mY b-baby—"
.
.
"Michael." The person who texted him from that number showed their face.
He looked at the haggard woman, wondering how she could change within a few weeks, but stopping himself from thinking about it and reminding himself that he didn't have to get involved anymore, he turned his head to the side.
He chose to watch as the people walked through their daily lives ignorant of what didn't involve their world.
The woman sighed, pilling a Letter out of her bag, and steeled herself before walking in front of him and bowing, "I'm Sorry."
Ignoring his wide-eyedness, she said, "I shouldn't have responded that way, and for that, I apologize." Brief and concise, as if that were all she could handle right now.
Jane handed him the letter with familiar handwriting.
"Since it's what they found in her hospital bed it was probably the last thing she wrote. I wasn't going to give this to you, but…I felt that you should have some kind of closure…"
[To My Harbinger of Death]
Michael engrossed himself in the parchment, ignorant of when Jane left, diving right into the paper, picturing her voice as he read.
[I guess I finally croaked, huh? Come on, I know that got a weak chuckle out of you. Eh–Eh, I know it did; don't worry, I won't say anything so you don't get embarrassed.]
Unknowingly, a smirk rose from his lips, ending his month-long streek of straight–lipness.
[I'm sorry if this is a terrible message; they don't exactly teach you how to write your death letter. Though now that I think about it they should to terminally ill patients like myself, not to put any dead friend pressure on you.]
Michael felt a nudge in his side imagining her poking him there with her terrible acting face.
[Now down to business. I'm mainly writing this to say thank you. Honestly, you've given me so much in these seven days, more than I've gotten throughout my entire life.]
Engrossed in his thoughts, Michael almost snapped when the waitress came over to ask him what he wanted.
But controlling himself, he ordered a #3, quickly returning to the paragraph.
[It's not that I had a terrible life, but somehow when I was approaching my death, I felt the most free, free of expectations, free of responsibilities, free of everything, knowing that in a few short days, everything would come to an end.]
[I want to thank you for allowing me to feel that happy even in my demise, I want to thank you for being the only one in that psychotic white room that would give me a chance. I want to thank you for not being a coward, not fearing the loss of a bond, and I want to thank you for being courageous enough to form that bond with me in the first place.]
He sniffled to himself, keeping the liquids that threatened to come out at bay.
[This is also an encouragement letter.] Despite knowing you for less than a week, I feel that I know best what you have gone through. I feel I know best that you are a person who will take any amount of pain and not speak a single word of it, so it is because of that that I speak to you.]
[Thank you not just for me but for the thousands of other patients you've gone through. Thank you for taking on the burdens others are too scared to bear despite your inability to deal with them. Thank you for taking on burdens that should not be yours to carry, and I hope that you do not crumble because of them.]
A chill went up his spine as he realized that she knew him to a startling degree.
[I know that despite your big, tough demeanor, you'll find it hard to deal with after my death. After all, I am such an amazing person, so I hope that you do not let my death define you. I hope that you continue moving forward despite it and use it as fuel rather than a wall.]
[I'm getting tired, so I'll leave you with one parting sentence: My dear Harbinger of Death, please do not forget the joy of life and the hope that you've brought me. Please never forget that feeling and continue on your path of spreading it to all that you can. Thank you, My Crow]
As tears rolled down his face dripping from his skin onto the granite table, Micheal acted as if he didn't notice focussing on bringing the standard Cheese Burger he could've ordered from any of the other McDonald's to his mouth.
He savored the flavor relishing in the meaty taste mixed with the contrasting Pickets and Onions furthering the richness of the food.
As he delved into its flavor he only had one thought,
'Beautiful.'