The Burden - A Short Story (1/3) By Joe Hakim

(1/3), (2/3), (3/3).

I step out into the sun and close my eyes, letting the light wash over my face. It's cold, and the wind pinches my cheeks but I feel complete, for the first time ever. Today the world is different. Today is the first day of a new beginning. Everything feels real and vivid, and I bathe in it, taking it all in like a child seeing a painting for the first time, judging the angles and contours of the firmament with the wonder of someone who has suddenly been given sight and sense and comprehension. It's funny how knowing you're going to die soon changes everything. It's like the protective plastic packaging of the world has been removed, and I'm free to touch it and experience it fully.

I go back into my flat and my eyes slowly adjust to the darkness, multi-coloured blobs swimming in front of my eyes as the room moves back into focus. I leave the TV off. No interruptions, no distractions; nothing to disturb the temporary oasis of calm that I have created. I go into the kitchen and make tea, sipping it slowly, savouring the warmth of the mug in my hands.

I look over at my answer-phone, and the red light is still blinking from the message I received, the message that changed everything. I click the computer on and it hums as it fills with energy. I just need to check my e-mails. It's funny how knowing you're going to die soon awards everything with layers of significance and meaning. Even the simple act of flicking a switch becomes a metaphor for life. My switch has been flicked. I regard the screen with anticipation, another piece of the puzzle falling into place, and I watch as the screen-saver appears.

It's a photo of my friends and I, grinning and waving. It's quite a recent picture, but now it seems quaint and innocent, a relic of an era that has passed away forever.

I smile, but instead of laughing, I feel tears streaming down my face. My chest vibrates as sobs break out of my rib cage and I have to look away. I want to ring all my friends and tell them what's happening to me but they wouldn't understand. They couldn't understand, and it would be unfair to burden them with the inevitability of it all. They would involve themselves, thinking that they could somehow change things, but they can't. It would just make trouble. Where I am going, I must go alone. Looking through the prisms of my tears, the image is distorted, and I click on the Options bar and remove the screen-saver, unable to stand the sight of it any longer. Like so many things, it is in the past now.

I regain myself and connect to the internet. I try to regard everything with detachment, but I can't help feeling a charge of anticipation making its way from my brain to my stomach. And there it is: message received. I do laugh now, I can't help it. I pour the remnants of my tea over the tower on the floor by my side. There's a loud pop and I see sparks rising, and the acrid smell of burning circuitry fills my nostrils. The screen goes blank. I go into the kitchen and I open the cupboard under the sink. After rooting around I find a hammer and I take over to the computer and start hitting it. The screen shatters and the letters fly away from the keyboard, a plastic alphabet shower.

It's funny how knowing you're going to die soon gives you the ability to do things that you'd never normally do.

Continued...Next Page (2/3)

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