Her Amber Eyes

Two small amber orbs gazed upon the withering figure garbed in what so commonly has become the saddest of all clothes. The simple and inelegant, the pathetic and uncomfortable, the scarcely sufficient, and terribly cold ‘gown’ our ‘wise and powerful’ medical system so derived from cost and efficiency. Her heart sinking deep within her as she looked on, the once mighty man she had known and loved for the better of a decade -- failing before her very eyes. Understand this? How could she. . . .

A smoker for so many years, the toll eventually hits all of us, now it was his turn to pay. However, the obligations of work, family, emotional ties, and some innate drive so purely beast that has become known as another trait of ‘humanity’-- they command him like any other to fight, to struggle, to strive for life in all it’s glory despite the agony of each and every beat of his heart, and every, raspy, forced breath of air that makes its way into his failing and blackened lungs.

The same damage of going into a burning building and deciding to call it home, the effects that only the brimstone of Hell should ever be cause to. How could he have known it would happen to him? How could he be coerced that this was not a valid ‘it won’t happen to me’ scenario? He couldn’t, and so in self-inflicted ignorance is his crime found, the judgment set. Understand this? How could she. . . .

No, she only knows, somehow, that she is watching her grandfather slowly sink lower and lower into that deepest abyss, and eventually, he won’t open those eyes of his again. . . . Nor will he ever speak her name in loving tones, nor tell her of the ‘good ‘ole days’ with silly and painfully long stories that never seemed to go anywhere, or tell her the same six jokes every month when he came to visit. No, he would never again hold her, or kiss a wounded knee, ail a wounded heart. . . . Somehow she ghost-guessed this, that he would be gone, and never return, and all because of that harmless looking stick that burned her fingertips when once she reached for it in curiosity. The thing that emitted the short grey wisps that caught in her breath and hurt her insides, fogged her head and made her sick. If it hurt her the way it did, then why did he even do it?

The drive from so many outside influences to begin. The days of innocence when his ‘crime’ was even endorsed by the much-trusted and blindly-followed medical technicians of the day. One wonders, if ever a true ‘Doctor’ can emerge from all this, or if only superstition and ‘best-guess’ dynamics will ever rule medicine. . . . For all those that suffer from its flaws. For all those that are kept alive, but barely, only to endure much longer suffering before the ailment finally takes them. His doom was sealed before he ever heard of a cigarette. . . . Understand this? How could she. . . .

A young girl’s grandfather, hero, mentor, councilor, doctor, and storyteller passes away into nothingness. . . . Under Morpheus’ embrace guided into the Corridor hence to Death’s loving embrace. A chapter in innocence ending thence, and much to change in Her Amber Eyes for years to come. Death has also gained entrance into Her heart on this night, and forever more has another lover, blindly traveling, ever closer, to the road whence the Embrace shall take her.

Understand this? How could she. . . .


“Gods be-damn you, you stubborn man!” Ah the wife, such a wonderful counterbalance to all of men’s many faults. An anti-weight to add to the Scales of Judgment in the end. Nagging, is only an annoying deliverance of what a man truly must hear to be a ‘good man’. Something, at the moment, this one in particular has forgotten. “I can’t keep saying this Kien, nor will the doctors. If you don’t stop, and we all do mean now and for good, then you will die.” If it isn’t enough to speak the truth once, then try, try, try, and try again.

The stubborn fool in question is only in his mid thirties, and for all the warnings he’s received he has yet to suffer from any ailment prophesied by the ‘authorities on such matters’ derived from his little flaw. Granted, he is aware that it is inevitable, it will afflict him, he just sees no reason to ‘doge the bullet’. To hell with it, if Death pleases to take him by cigarettes, then so be it. It will come when it will come, in any event.

“For the better part of two decades I’ve listened to this. I said it a thousand times I’m certain by now. I will not quit smoking. Probably can not for all its worth, and so what? I will die, when I will die. I will face death honorably, and for the final time I swear it. . . If it is the time it takes for cancer to kill a man don’t worry about that. I shan’t deliver myself to oblivion in naught but a skimpy little sheet. I’ll take my death as it comes, whenever it chooses.”

Wise words seemingly, but can one really understand the pain they are condemning themselves to with such choices? Can one honestly forgo ‘humanity’, by laying their lives forfeit on the very moment of news that it is verily so? Perhaps this one may, but his assurances that this is the case with him speak otherwise in their voracity. Still, the conflict ends for the night much as it any other time might, of any other nature. A carefully measured apology followed in swift succession by the passions that very well could be accused of sparking the relationship all those years past, and accurately accused as well. . . .

So the couple lie down quietly, and let sleep drift over them in much a careful manner, disguising itself as completely as it may as naught but the night’s calm washing over them, before Morpheus’ Blanket envelopes the lovers in an embrace even sweeter than their own.

Thence the years pass, and slowly, it becomes apparent to the man that all words spoken to him about the abomination he seemingly could not live without, were beginning to rear their ugly little heads in the dark recesses of his mind, tormenting him above all else, with the painfully apparent fact-- the woman was dead on all along. He curses. . . .

On what to him seems like an entirely ordinary day,  Death makes its final swoop into his path, or rather, he makes the final turn into its. . . . On what seems to him an entirely ordinary Monday he steps into his office, he compliments his assistant’s new dress while turning over in his mind just how much money that woman must spend in a year on new dresses that she might have a rather fashionable one on every first and last Monday in a month (this particular Monday being the latter). Then he steps into his office, a rather unassuming inner office he himself had converted from his old cubicle he had as an entry-level worker. The employees give him their compliments, out of which he quite accurately deduces those that are not horseshit and then begins his day.  He writes, and three hours, three espressos eight cigarettes and twenty-three minutes later. . . He begins with a simple cough, this inconspicuous little cough, most unfortunately, however, leads to a rather serious bought of coughing, and then to a fit, at the end of which he holds in his hand not mucus as much as he would desire it to be, but a violent splattering of a once friendly substance. His blood had stained his new four hundred dollar shirt his daughter somehow thought he needed as a birthday gift. His first thought, naturally, was what the hell he was going to tell her; his second, what the hell had caused this, and third, my personal favorite, and I quote “Well great, I’m now a bloody corpse walking”.

With much effort he makes his composure remain solid throughout the remainder of the day, pencils in tomorrow as a ‘personal day’ to be off, and returns home to his loving wife, and with any luck up to three children with as many as five grandchildren. Unlike most days, instead of hoping to see a particular set, a certain number, or even none, he is in one of those rare moods he desires, and prays even, for every one of them to be there. Something about coughing up his own blood will do that to a man.

Upon arriving at his normal time, in his normal mood, and with the normal motion of tossing his cigarette into the little container the little lady insists on keeping so no cigarette make it accidentally into the home-- he slides into his chair, wraps his arms around a loving wife as she slides half into his lap, half into the remainder of his seat, and kisses her with the passion of a thousand nights pent-up inside of him. They sneak off into the bedroom, and an hour later return to an un-astonished family, all of which did indeed come tonight, and enjoy a meal together.

The next day he leaves at exactly the time he always does, but takes the first available turn the opposite direction, and he goes to the family doctor the wife insisted they establish thirty years ago for the first time in his life under such circumstances, he’s the one that needs to be seen.

The doctor, naturally, is quite shaken to see him there for himself and admits him with all due haste, surely such a man that so adamantly insists a doctor never touch him lest he is dying. Well, hope for the best, as they say.

The prognosis is quite unfortunate. Beyond your humble narrator’s understanding to be sure, but it amounts to this. . . . The man too stubborn to desist what he knew would eventually kill him has come to collect. Cancer has been progressing slowly in him in serious measure for a few years at least, and there’s nothing to be done that is more than prolonging the inevitable. Untreated, six months, treated, maybe three years, perhaps more with a miracle. The stubborn man signs papers locking this information away from even his wife, informs the doctor he will most definitely not be seeking treatment, and goes to work. He works for three hours, and twenty-three minutes, smokes twelve cigarettes, coughs two handkerchiefs full of blood, drinks eleven cups of coffee, and heads home. He writes nothing.

He walks into the house without taking off his coat, he does not put out his cigarette, he heads into his office, barely taking the time to put up the sign

“Great idea, sorry baby, inspiration can’t wait!
Love you,
Kien”

    Before he pulls out a bottle of Dom Perignon ‘42 and uncorks it. Five hours pass. He smokes one full pack, drinks two bottles of wine, coughs up three handkerchiefs full of blood, drinks two sips of his coffee, and silently drops one solitary tear into the mess of his cantankerous vitae before crawling into bed, cuddled up to a sleeping angel. He writes nothing.

Six weeks pass. . . .

Two small amber orbs gazed upon the withering figure garbed in what so commonly has become the saddest of all clothes. The simple and inelegant, the pathetic and uncomfortable, the scarcely sufficient, and terribly cold ‘gown’ our ‘wise and powerful’ medical system so derived from cost and efficiency. Her heart sinking deep within her as she looked on, the once mighty man she had known and loved for just over three decades -- failing before her very eyes. Understand this? How could she. . .

And as he finally slips away into his last sleep she ghost-guesses that his last waking moment has finally passed. Her head lowers to his stomach, and before the machine begins screaming so like her heart, before the nurses begin yelling for her to leave the room, before even the stubborn man will realize, she collapses under the weight of her pain; and she can see Morpheus carry him away, and she can see as Death claims Her lover as its own. Two tears fall from those misty orbs, and then Her Amber Eyes are dim as his.