Death of a Nameless (1/5)
Your end is unlike any other death that you’ve read about in obituaries. From time to time you would read them out of morbid curiosity and hear about how so and so died surrounded by their family and friends. But not you. Unexpectedly, you die alone.
Not in bed beside a partner, who’d wake up to find you lying stiff and not breathing. Not in a hospital with a nurse on the 10th hour of her 12th hour shift coming in to check on you and seeing that you’ve flat lined. Not in your cubicle at the office, where a worker drone would see you faceplant into the keyboard before hurrying off to the copy machine hours before a lonely janitor finds you ice cold in the same spot.
Instead, at 4:00 p.m., you die on the couch in front of the television. Before that, you get yourself a bag of chips, a can of soda, and your pack of smokes. You turn on the TV, flip through the channels before stopping on a loud, flashy game show. Then a tingling sensation trickles from your head down to the tips of your toes. A soothingly familiar wave of exhaustion washes over you. Overcome with lethargy, your eyes become heavy, and your heart slows down.
You try with all your might to fight it off. After all, you want to watch your show. Your head slumps to the side, and your body goes limp. You stop breathing.
But the game show goes on.
Your weight presses down on the remote between the couch cushion and your right butt cheek. The volume turns up. The crowd cheers louder and louder! The host screams for the contestant to spin the wheel harder and harder!
“What do you get?” the host shouts. “A brand-new microwave!”
The contestant’s beaming face shines in your glazed, blank eyes.