Joseph Kline was dying. His pallid skin wrinkled, resembling the dried skin of an elephant. His teeth had long fallen out of his skull, leaving smooth, glistening, pink gums unable to masticate anything with a consistency more viscous than apple sauce. The man's fingernails had darkened, except for the few white bruise marks from the machinations of old age. He wasn't sure about his toenails, as the man had been unable to move his feet for months.
Joseph tried to look at his surroundings, but his neck was unmoving. The only sense unaffected by his confinement was his hearing. Each time Joseph tried to move, the sound of plastic clinking against metal rang across the room. The noise came from his left, near his arm. The man guessed that tubes connected to him were being ground against his cheap bedframe. A constant beeping interrupted the silence, matching the beat of his heart. Attempting to drown the ambient noise was the record player his daughter had brought from home. The machine played Bach and Beethoven, but nothing could distract him from his deteriorating body and mental faculties.
"Are you okay, Dad? Is something bothering you?" A concerned voice asked from Joseph's right side.
"Hm…I'm fine, can't ya tell?" The older man jested.
"You were just moving around a lot, I thought–"
"You thought I kicked the bucket," The man tried to laugh but coughed instead.
"Dad, you need to quiet down and relax, the nurses–"
"To hell with the nurses. I want to enjoy dying," Joseph whispered aggressively. "Who made them the experts on death? Have they died before?"
The middle-aged woman laughed at her father's antics before growing serious.
"I want to bring the kids tomorrow. Do you think you're up for it?" His daughter asked.
"I'd die before I missed a visit from the kids, Belle," Joseph responded with the gummiest grin he could muster.
Belle laughed again, her smile cemented on her face this time. The woman slowly stood up, grabbing her purse. A sticker plastered to the side of her bag read, "Forrest Hospice Care Visitor Pass." Belle backed out of the room, her eyes never leaving her father's silhouette.
When the door closed, Joseph's once-deep breaths became shallow. Breathing in too deeply had begun to burn his lungs a few days ago, but he would never let his daughter see him in such a precarious state. His quick inhalations soon synchronized with Mozart, the heart monitor, and the undulating paraphernalia of the air conditioner. The symphony was hypnotic, lulling him to sleep and making his eyelids heavier with each beep that echoed through his chamber.
Many claim that before death, their lives flash before their eyes. Joseph's experience has been different. For as long as he has been dying, Joseph has rewatched scenes of his life like a moviegoer, each event a new reel of film to explore. For two months, he has been reliving his existence's most mundane and extraordinary experiences. However, Joseph had noticed that his core memories hadn't yet made an appearance. He had a feeling that those echoes of a bygone era would be the harbingers of his death throes.
Once Joseph's consciousness faded, a blinding yellow light flooded his vision. His feet, now functional, were buried in Saint Augustine grass, leaving an itchy rash on his ankles. Joseph tried to move his body but could not, as usual, a passenger in his dream rather than the pilot. The overwhelming illumination began to dim, allowing him to investigate his environment. Protected by a mahogany fence was an acre of land surrounded by unidentifiable trees, drowning in Spanish moss. The one tree, devoid of its usual dull green color, had a fort built on one of its branches, resting fifteen feet above the ground. Joseph identified the land as his childhood home, built by his father and maintained by his mother.
Born in 1951, Joseph's parents raised him in the post-war era, instilling patriotic and chivalric values in his immature brain. The boy loves his parents, his home, and his country. Joseph's childhood was uneventful; his mother spoiled him, and his father was not much better. His family was the ideal American household. The man took pride in his roots.
Joseph had not seen his parents since their passing in the late 1980s and early 1990s, so deep in his heart, he hoped this dream would be everlasting.
"Joe! Dinner time, come inside!" The boy heard his mother shout from the back porch.
"Coming!" Joseph's mouth moved, ignoring the dreamer's free will.
"Set the table. Your dad should be home any minute."
"Yes, ma'am," the boy sighed.
Before his body could finish setting the table, the front door opened, and a man walked in. The gentleman looked like Joe had before his health started to decline. If Joseph had control of his body, his tear ducts would have already been drained and raw.
His mother tapped her mixing spoon on the side of a metallic pan resting on the stove, the noise reverberating against the walls.
"Food's ready; grab a plate," His mother said triumphantly, smiling as if she had just slain a dragon like a fairy tale knight.
The family lined up for food, Joseph's father first, him second, and his mother third. They then each found their seats at the table. Joseph felt his consciousness get tugged, announcing his awakening. At the same time, he gained control of his vocal cords.
"I miss you, Mom, Dad," Joseph choked on his words.
"We know, we miss you too," His mother responded.
"I love you two so much," He sputtered.
"We know. We love you too," She responded gently. "We'll see you soon."
As soon as the words registered in his mind, Joseph awoke. His eyelids shot open, and his breaths grew more turbid than before. Joseph knew it was all a dream, a delusion, but he found comfort in the delirium. The patient forced himself to calm down, noticing that hardly any time had passed since he first drifted off as the darkness around him had only grown darker.
The silent concert in his room persisted, soothing him, rocking him drowsy as if he were still a baby in a cradle. The tired man's eyelids slammed shut, heavy as anvils. Joseph drifted away from his sick body into another of his younger incarnations, though he was not sure which he preferred after seeing his travel destination.
As far as the eye could see, the flora of varying colors was pounded by heavy rains and shaken by catastrophic thunder. The sound of gunfire and boots slopping through mud rumbled, almost as loud as the hail-like droplets of water banging against Joseph's helmet. Joseph's body stood in the open, dazed and confused, before hearing a fierce scream.
"What the fuck are you doing, Private?! Find cover!"
Regaining his bearings, Joseph dropped to the soft, wet ground and crawled to the nearest mound of dirt. Joseph still had no control over his motor functions, as if prerecorded code dictated all his movements. Everything would play out the same way it had in real life.
The malleable mound acclimated to the shape of his back, the sides stretching outward every time his overworked lungs pressed into his ribs. His fingernails cracked as he stabbed them into his government-issued M16.
"Why the fuck am I here? What'd I do to deserve this?" Joe's lips parted wildly, spitting out dribble.
"I wonder the same, kid," The voice from earlier responded, closer than before.
Next to Joseph was a darker man covered in splotches of sludge, equipped with a U.S. Army uniform. Unconsciously, Joseph ran toward the fearless shout, hoping to find security.
"Focus on surviving," the voice whispered. "Don't zone out when enemies are shooting at you, idiot."
"Yes, Corporal Johnson, sir!" Joe yelled out.
"Quiet down. I'm sitting right next to you."
"Sir…what should I do?"
"Follow me."
The Corporal shifted his weight onto his left buttock before pushing his weight up and rushing to a barricade 5 meters north. Joseph chased after, his feet sinking deeper into the gelatinous ground with each stride. His feet began to peel and bleed inside his combat boot, mixing with the water seeping through his pant legs. Everything hurt: his head, his feet, his chest, his hand, his heart.
"Alright, Private, things are gonna get dangerous," The Corporal's face dimmed. Before dashing westward, the Corporal smiled crookedly, "Start shooting those guerrilla bastards."
"…Okay," Joseph's Adam's apple shook violently, and his grip on the rifle grew taut.
Pushing away his anxiety, Joseph popped his head over the bulwark, aimed at the darkness, and held down the trigger, listening for screams of pain. In what felt like seconds, Joseph had burned through thirty cartridges with nothing to show for it. Deep down, the soldier was happy he failed, but on the other hand, he felt ashamed.
Loading a new magazine, Joe heard footfalls running toward him. Before the magazine could click into his gun, a Viet Cong soldier had tackled him from his right side, audibly cracking the bone in his dominant arm. The two men started wrestling on the ground for what felt like hours, but was probably only fifteen seconds. Each fluctuation of their position occurred in slow motion. By the end of the struggle, Joseph had an arm tightly wrapped around his neck and legs pressed against his inner thighs.
Desperate, Joseph was flailing his arms and kicking his legs. Rain dripped onto his face, mixing with his tears and snot. The young soldier scratched his enemy's arms, but only left flesh wounds. Joseph tried arching his back and rolling over, but everything he had previously learned in his haphazard training failed.
Lighting flashed, and the grip around his carotid artery loosened. The Viet Cong soldier had a Joseph's knife in his throat. The man gurgled and drowned in his own blood. Joseph pulled his knife out of the man's throat and plunged it towards his heart, then his lungs, then his stomach. Joseph stabbed the man over and over and over. Joseph gritted his teeth, crying.
Looking down at his bloodied, shaking hands, Joseph sobbed. His gaze strayed towards the remnants of the Viet Cong soldier, a boy younger than himself. Bugs had already begun feasting on the corpse, like flies on feces.
Joseph then glanced to the west and observed what was left of Corporal Johnson. The man had been blown up, either by a grenade or a mine. The explosive had embedded scrap metal into the man's skin, making him look like a gory cyborg. Exposed bones stuck out where his legs had been, and his once bright eyes glazed over. His savior was gone, enamored by Ares and embraced by Hades.
The rusty smell of blood dominated the battlefield, leaving an acrid taste in Joseph's mouth. The young warrior's face was bloodied, his dry scleras dyed red by the innards of his enemies. Blood, mud, and gunpowder covered his shaking, damaged body. Dead skin and dirt were packed under his cracked fingernails. With dull eyes, Joseph leaned back, cradling his right arm and occasionally rubbing his neck, basking in the orchestrated massacre.
Joseph woke up again, sweating and feeling sick. The older man pressed his assistance button, calling for a nurse. Before the woman could respond, he had started dry heaving, letting bile spill from his lips down his cheeks. The woman gently cleaned his cheeks and changed his pillowcase, now sullied by putrid-smelling stomach acid.
"Is everything okay now, Mr. Kline?"
"Yes, yes. I just had a bad dream. Spent a night with an unsavory girl down in Atlanta," Joseph joked.
"Don't let your daughter hear you say that, Mr. Kline," The nurse chided
"Oh, don't be a buzzkill," Joseph fearfully uttered. "You know I was yanking your chain!"
"You need to get to sleep, Mr. Kline. It's the middle of the night."
"Fine, Fine. You better not say anything to my daughter, though. If you do, I'll haunt you," Joseph threatened.
The nurse chuckled and closed the door. Joe took a deep breath and closed his eyes, reflecting on his unwelcome return to the States. Damaged, Joseph was ostracized. College students labeled him a colonizing devil, and his childhood friends looked at him differently. He had changed. The government had drafted him for the war effort in Vietnam, so why was he being attacked? He didn't want to kill. He didn't want to lose his emotions. He fought and survived for what? To return home and have the protected ridicule him? Joseph began to foster dark emotions in his heart, fueling the raging flame with heroin and violence. Scars still littered his body from his self-destructive binges. He had even spent time behind bars as a result of his drug-fueled escapades.
Reminiscing, Joseph began to slip into unconsciousness, a new film reel placed on the mind's projector. The darkness receded as the sally port doors in front of him opened, sunlight kissing his pale skin. In his hand was a cold, leather bag containing the belongings confiscated by the police before his arrest, of course, minus the illegal contraband.
Joseph's legs lifted one at a time, directing his body toward the nearest public transport. He grabbed his rumbling stomach and began to salivate. He'd decided to hit the diner when he got to town. Joseph's heart jumped when he realized where this memory was leading.
After boarding a bus, Joseph's leg bounced impatiently at each stop. He was hungry. All he had eaten for the last two years was tasteless slop, so he was dying to get a plain cheeseburger and hot chocolate. Afterward, Joseph would steal some drugs and ride the high until the cops caught him again. Finally, the bus reached the city, and he had set his sights on a restaurant.
Joseph sat down in a booth and waited for service, eavesdropping on family gossip and counting the number of times the bell over the door jingled. He laid his head down on the table to better concentrate. Suddenly, he felt a gentle tap on his shoulder.
"Are you ready to order, sir?" A beautiful, mischievous voice prodded.
Joe lifted his head and observed the woman. She had amazing jade skin, captivating blue eyes, and an hourglass figure. The woman's face was sharp and intimidating, yet alluring to a man like Joseph.
"Sorry…I am. Can I get a hot chocolate?" Joseph blushed because his request was embarrassing, and the server was stunning.
"A chocolate milk? Sir, are you a child?" The server bantered.
"I wish. Life was so easy back then." Joe responded with grim amusement.
The woman studied Joe's face briefly before announcing, "After my shift's over, let's go somewhere fun. Pick me up at 2:00 P.M.; don't be late."
"Huh? Why?"
"What? You don't want to spend some time with a girl as pretty as myself?"
"You sure are confident in yourself, aren't you?" Joe rebuked, a frown plastered on his face.
"Sure am," The girl affirmed with a shameless grin.
"Fine, I'll be waiting by the front door. I'll assume you, rightfully, changed your mind if you're not there by 2:10 P.M."
"I wouldn't miss it for the world!"
The woman confused Joe. They did not even know each other's names, and she was planning a date. Looking back now, the man knew she had saved his life. War had melted him down in a crucible, but she was the blacksmith who placed him in a mold and sharpened him to be the man he is today. That girl became his wife, his best friend, and the mother of his children.
Had she not intervened, he'd have burnt out his wings and fallen, as did Icarus.
Joseph woke with a tearful smile, glad to have remembered such a special moment. Overwhelmed with emotion, even his audible senses dulled, allowing him a moment of silence. For the rest of the night, Joe had a dreamless slumber.
When he woke up, his condition had deteriorated. His physical body had already crumbled beforehand, but now his mental faculties had slowed down. The husband, father, and grandfather forced himself to stay conscious so that he could say goodbye to his family. The nurses had already called his little girl and let him know she was on her way.
Half an hour later, the door swung open, and the quiet pitter-patter of youthful stomps entered the room. Suddenly, two faces emerged over Joseph's. Two heavier pairs of footsteps reluctantly shuffled behind.
"Are you okay, Gramps?" The older girl asked.
"Now that you guys're here," Joseph tried to nod, but couldn't lift his head from the pillow.
"Are you gonna die?" The younger girl asked, her parents trying to block her mouth.
"I think so. It's my time," Joseph delicately responded.
"I don't want you to go," The older girl cried, gripping Joseph's hand tightly.
"We'll meet again. Death is only a temporary separation," Joe comforted, though he was not sure he believed his own words.
"In heaven?"
"Whichever afterlife exists, I'll be there…maybe…hopefully." The veteran giggled, thinking back on his deeds.
Looking at the ceiling, Joe inquired, "Where's Beatrice?"
"She's already waiting for you, Dad," Belle whispered through tears.
"I see…I really am losing it."
"Belle…"
"Yeah…?"
"I…love you."
"I love you, too, Dad."
Joseph's breaths slowed, satisfied with his final words. The man's lips lifted into a brilliant smile, and his eyes closed, entering an eternal, dreamless sleep. The rhythmic inhalations relaxed, and his smile receded. Once his ragged breaths ceased, muffled sobs took their place.
Joseph Kline had died.