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The Arsenal Files 8
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The Arsenal Files Collection #8 (Arsenal Computer) (1996).ISO
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RUBY61-3
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1996-09-30
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107 lines
Copyright (c) 1996
A BRIEF RESURRECTION
by Paul A. Toth
"How can you sit there with that stupid look on your face?" Nancy
asked.
Tom moved his arm. The tube swayed. His arm rested against his
belly, jiggling the second tube, the blood gurgling inside it. He stared
at the TV Guide cover.
"'Shut up', you're thinking, 'be quiet.' Well just sit there
like a fat fucking angel."
He wouldn't look at her.
"I should take that IV bottle and smash it across your face."
Nancy snatched the TV Guide from his hands, tore the cover up,
let the pieces of paper drizzle on his stomach.
"Can't you say anything to me? You're ready. I'm not. You have
to leave me more than that blank look."
He closed his eyes, smiled.
"You're dying, and I am watching television."
Nancy picked up the remote and pushed the button, turned channels
to ABC. She tried to pay attention to the talk show and ignore Tom for
five minutes, but when she looked over again, he was already asleep.
She turned the set off and went to the bathroom. She bent and
picked up the box of pill bottles from beneath the sink.
"Codeine #4." Nancy rolled the bottle back and forth between her
fingers. "That was last year, at the start, before they knew. You liked
Codeine." She unsnapped the lid and dumped the tablets into the toilet.
"Darvocet; you liked that, too, but it screwed up your stomach."
She spilled the pills. "Then I think this one was next, Dilaudid. That
was after they knew it wasn't going to take long and it didn't matter
anymore, as long as they spaced the drugs out so they didn't run out of
something stronger too soon. That was about when you started leaving me.
But it was this one that turned you into Gabriel without a trumpet:
Morphine. I don't know what would have come next. Heaven, I guess."
Nancy pushed in the childproof tabs, removed the last lid and
tipped the bottle. Now twenty different colors floated in the clear
toilet water. She flushed it and the pills went spiralling down the
hole.
She turned the bathroom light off and sat on the toilet, looking
at the moon through the top of the tree that brushed against the screen.
"You would have done the same thing. It's just a little longer
and then it's over. He should be alive for that, and then you can have
him, and it will be that much better. If it's the wrong thing, then let
him die now, before the pain comes, and I'll have nothing but this moment
to remember."
Nancy went back to the living room, took the cot from the closet,
opened it and set it beside Tom's bed. She lay down and put her hand on
his chest, careful not to disturb the tubes. She could feel his muscles
jerking and knew it was withdrawal, but she also knew he had enough
morphine going to keep him asleep until morning. She, however, was not
tired. Turning on her side, she put her open palm beneath her jaw, and,
looking at Tom, spoke in a half-whisper.
"You haven't finished your book. You left it open just a few
pages from the end because you knew it had an unhappy ending. You made
up your own ending so that all the characters are happy and nothing
tragic happens. But they're not happy and something tragic is happening.
"They've eliminated your pain. You're immune to everything,
protected. That's what cancer did for you, made it easy, let you off the
hook. This is only happening to me. I put up with your hangovers, your
goddamned temper. I put up with her. You owe me whatever you have left.
I don't care how little it is."
For a moment, Nancy thought of ripping the tube out of his
stomach. Then she stretched out between the bed and the cot and rested
her head next to his. In a few seconds, she fell asleep.
***
Tom started, then seized.
Nancy woke.
His body was rigid, the bed soaked with sweat.
"Oh Jesus."
She rolled off of the cot, went behind the bed and placed her
hands against his temples. His mouth hung open, as if pried apart. She
tried to push him down, but he remained upright, petrified.
"Ahhawammaw," he shouted.
"What?"
"Ahhawammaw!"
"I don't understand. Speak English, goddamn it."
But she already knew he was speaking some secret language all his
own.
"Tell me, Tom. Tell me, tell me."
He inhaled through his mouth, the word, if it was a word, sucking
it backwards.
"Oh, God, no, no." She struck his chest. "I can't understand
you."
His body shook harder and then he fell back, striking his head.
His eyes remained open, but focused on nothing. His facial muscles
stiffened, the skin taunt against the bones, his mouth stretched, but he
was still breathing.
He grabbed her wrist. She felt the fingers drive into her veins.
"I made a mistake. Do you forgive me?" Nancy said.
"Ahhawammaw!"
"But I'm saying the words for you. I'll have to imagine them.
I'll make up the ending. I'll say it."
He twisted her hand back.
"'It's horrible, death. I shouldn't have wanted it so soon. I
shouldn't have hurt you. Now I know how wrong it was.'?"
Her arm as paralyzed as his body, wrist about to break. Then,
his grip suddenly gave way. His body stayed rigid beside her, his mouth
locked open.
"And I replied, 'It's okay now, my love. You just lie there.
Let me bear it for you.'"
END