The longer he lived and the more he talked, the more difficult it became to say anything. He got caught up too easily in the trappings and niceties of society. Too many topics became off-limits; he did not speak of them lest he offend someone. He began speaking like an army cadet reporting to his senior officer. No nonsense, only the obvious questions and the obvious answers. This went on for years, him talking and talking and holding back more than he ever meant to.
Then the coughing started. It began like a mild flu. Then it escalated to the point that he could only speak in a quiet gravelly voice without going into a fit of coughing. And the more he talked like this the worse he got. Something was lodged deep in his throat where no one could see: maybe a year’s worth of feelings held back, or ideas not spoken, or wants not met. Eventually he could no longer talk at all, and the coughing subsided for just one week. Then it came back and it remained, even when he was silent. And sure enough a discernible bulge formed and swelled in his throat. It started the size of a golf ball. In a month it was the size of a grapefruit. In two more months, it was as big as a soccer ball and he was admitted to the hospital against his will. And the last thing he ever heard was a doctor asking him why he hadn’t come in sooner. His response, if he still had his powers of speech, might have been that he didn’t want to burden anyone. Or maybe he would have said he was afraid. Or that he hated and mistrusted doctors. Or that he secretly wanted to die. Or that no one loved him enough to make him come in. Instead his eyes just got really wide, his mouth opened wider, and a big vein in his neck pulsated, snake-like. Then with a sound like a thousand dying frogs or maybe a handful of dreams betrayed, his neck exploded right there in the hospital room.
No comments:
Post a Comment