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07/26/03
-
The Last Notebook
By Phenyx
-
I don't like this medication. It makes me feel woozy and slow. Everything seems to move in slow motion and sounds have a muffled quality to them like I'm hearing through cotton earmuffs. This prescription is supposed to be taken twice a day, once in the morning and once at night. But I don't think I'll take anymore during the day unless I really have to. The headaches only come at night anyway.
I don't want to sleep my days away. There are so few of them left.
Dr. Carsdayle seems competent enough. As we discussed the course of treatment we would follow, he readily accepted my wishes. The quality of the rest of my life has far more importance to me than the quantity. I won't let them lock me in a sterile room, tied to a bunch of medical equipment just to buy myself a few extra weeks of painful misery. There's nothing left to do but make me as comfortable as possible as Carsdayle put it.
After the doctor's office, I found a lawyer. Rosemary Olham turned out to be a dowdy, harsh woman with a face like a hawk. She is a stern older woman who made the law her career in a time when the profession was reserved for men. She does have a kind heart. I presented her with a list of instructions to follow upon my death and paid her a handsome retainer. She will see to all the final arrangements. I won't wind up as some John Doe, lost and forgotten in the morgue.
I've hired a housekeeper. Bonnie is the same woman who works for Cody's father. She'll come three times a week and straighten up. She'll do the laundry, wash the dishes and vacuum a bit, things I just don't want to waste time on. I'll pay her cash each day so she makes a little extra that she won't need to claim with Uncle Sam.
Having the cleaning lady swing by here every few days serves a second purpose as well. If I die in my sleep or collapse in the livingroom, she'll find me within two or three days. It won't be the weeks old smell of decay that brings the police to find my rancid corpse.
These are practical concerns. Logical thoughts that help me make decisions which had seemed so insurmountable a week ago.
My fears seem smaller during the day, easier to shrug off. It is only at night that the end looms over me with suffocating clarity. Perhaps, taking the drugs in the evening will help. The fuzziness of my thoughts and impressions will dull the sharp edge of tension and help me sleep.
Sleeping is difficult. Last night I lay awake for hours, debating whether to call her or not. I haven't spoken to any of them in months. I wonder if she has noticed. Perhaps her inner sense has registered that something is wrong. Maybe she's worried about me.
I doubt it.
Maybe, I'll call now.
Of course she isn't home. At this time of day she is still at work. But I called just the same. I listened to her voice on the answering machine and then hung up after the beep. I didn't know what to say.
I desperately want to tell her. Tell her that I won't be bothering her for much longer. Where I am going she cannot follow. The chase is almost over.
But what should I do if she starts to cry? Nothing can rip into my soul the way her quiet tears can. She thinks that I don't know. She believes that I can't tell because the phone line prevents my seeing her. But I can hear it in her voice. The despair and hopelessness crosses the miles between us so very easily.
I hate the thought that I could be responsible for her tears.
What if she starts to cry? Or far worse yet, what if she doesn't?
With my death, she will be free. The Centre will no longer have its hold over her life. She can walk away. She'll be better off. Why would she weep over her own liberation? She'll probably buy a bottle of champagne and celebrate.
She is more like the person she pretends to be than I want to admit. There is a reason she has survived at The Centre for so long. She has built a career at The Centre, and her rise through the ranks has not been based solely upon her name. She can hold her own against the worst of them.
What does that say about me? I'm a forty-two year old man who spends his time purposely trying to invoke bad memories. Urging her well buried vulnerabilities to the surface in order to catch the faintest glimpse of the little girl she once was. I adored her when we were children. Her mere presence was like sunshine to me. I never really got over her.
I like to think that she has some tender feelings for me. Buried memories of childhood, friends who comforted each other through lonely times. But I suppose I only imagine most of it.
Then again, she hasn't killed me yet. If anyone could have gotten close enough to do so, it would have been her. But there are things she will not do. There are lines she will not cross. After all these years in that place, she still has a conscience. She can still care. I admire her greatly for that. It is this tenacity of spirit, her compassion, which is her greatest strength. This will be the weapon that ultimately defeats her brother. Lyle cannot begin to understand her.
Which brings me back to the original question, would she cry? Is this annoying pest of a lab rat worthy of a few precious tears?
I don't want to make her cry, but it will break my heart if she doesn't.
I won't call. I can't. I'm too much of a coward. I don't want to know how she will react.
I will allow myself to believe that she will mourn. If I pretend hard enough, maybe I can convince myself it's true.
07/26/03
-
The Last Notebook
By Phenyx
-
I don't like this medication. It makes me feel woozy and slow. Everything seems to move in slow motion and sounds have a muffled quality to them like I'm hearing through cotton earmuffs. This prescription is supposed to be taken twice a day, once in the morning and once at night. But I don't think I'll take anymore during the day unless I really have to. The headaches only come at night anyway.
I don't want to sleep my days away. There are so few of them left.
Dr. Carsdayle seems competent enough. As we discussed the course of treatment we would follow, he readily accepted my wishes. The quality of the rest of my life has far more importance to me than the quantity. I won't let them lock me in a sterile room, tied to a bunch of medical equipment just to buy myself a few extra weeks of painful misery. There's nothing left to do but make me as comfortable as possible as Carsdayle put it.
After the doctor's office, I found a lawyer. Rosemary Olham turned out to be a dowdy, harsh woman with a face like a hawk. She is a stern older woman who made the law her career in a time when the profession was reserved for men. She does have a kind heart. I presented her with a list of instructions to follow upon my death and paid her a handsome retainer. She will see to all the final arrangements. I won't wind up as some John Doe, lost and forgotten in the morgue.
I've hired a housekeeper. Bonnie is the same woman who works for Cody's father. She'll come three times a week and straighten up. She'll do the laundry, wash the dishes and vacuum a bit, things I just don't want to waste time on. I'll pay her cash each day so she makes a little extra that she won't need to claim with Uncle Sam.
Having the cleaning lady swing by here every few days serves a second purpose as well. If I die in my sleep or collapse in the livingroom, she'll find me within two or three days. It won't be the weeks old smell of decay that brings the police to find my rancid corpse.
These are practical concerns. Logical thoughts that help me make decisions which had seemed so insurmountable a week ago.
My fears seem smaller during the day, easier to shrug off. It is only at night that the end looms over me with suffocating clarity. Perhaps, taking the drugs in the evening will help. The fuzziness of my thoughts and impressions will dull the sharp edge of tension and help me sleep.
Sleeping is difficult. Last night I lay awake for hours, debating whether to call her or not. I haven't spoken to any of them in months. I wonder if she has noticed. Perhaps her inner sense has registered that something is wrong. Maybe she's worried about me.
I doubt it.
Maybe, I'll call now.
Of course she isn't home. At this time of day she is still at work. But I called just the same. I listened to her voice on the answering machine and then hung up after the beep. I didn't know what to say.
I desperately want to tell her. Tell her that I won't be bothering her for much longer. Where I am going she cannot follow. The chase is almost over.
But what should I do if she starts to cry? Nothing can rip into my soul the way her quiet tears can. She thinks that I don't know. She believes that I can't tell because the phone line prevents my seeing her. But I can hear it in her voice. The despair and hopelessness crosses the miles between us so very easily.
I hate the thought that I could be responsible for her tears.
What if she starts to cry? Or far worse yet, what if she doesn't?
With my death, she will be free. The Centre will no longer have its hold over her life. She can walk away. She'll be better off. Why would she weep over her own liberation? She'll probably buy a bottle of champagne and celebrate.
She is more like the person she pretends to be than I want to admit. There is a reason she has survived at The Centre for so long. She has built a career at The Centre, and her rise through the ranks has not been based solely upon her name. She can hold her own against the worst of them.
What does that say about me? I'm a forty-two year old man who spends his time purposely trying to invoke bad memories. Urging her well buried vulnerabilities to the surface in order to catch the faintest glimpse of the little girl she once was. I adored her when we were children. Her mere presence was like sunshine to me. I never really got over her.
I like to think that she has some tender feelings for me. Buried memories of childhood, friends who comforted each other through lonely times. But I suppose I only imagine most of it.
Then again, she hasn't killed me yet. If anyone could have gotten close enough to do so, it would have been her. But there are things she will not do. There are lines she will not cross. After all these years in that place, she still has a conscience. She can still care. I admire her greatly for that. It is this tenacity of spirit, her compassion, which is her greatest strength. This will be the weapon that ultimately defeats her brother. Lyle cannot begin to understand her.
Which brings me back to the original question, would she cry? Is this annoying pest of a lab rat worthy of a few precious tears?
I don't want to make her cry, but it will break my heart if she doesn't.
I won't call. I can't. I'm too much of a coward. I don't want to know how she will react.
I will allow myself to believe that she will mourn. If I pretend hard enough, maybe I can convince myself it's true.
