Final Moments

Final Moments

   "Remembering that you are going to die is the best way I know 
   to avoid the trap of thinking you have something to lose."

       -Steve Jobs


Eventually the song had to end. It always does, and it always will.

The western winds blew when he died. The sun shone down, glistening off of a small pool of water. The dark trees swayed back and forth in beautiful harmony, singing their heavenly tune to the accompaniment of the chirping angels of the earth. Atop the highest mountain, in a perfect, peaceful, and pure vat of water, five swans spin, silent, mute. Then along the changing wind, a flock of crows descend upon this place of peace. Four land while the others circle ‘round. A bone-shaking call pierces the air. A head turns, a crow’s head. With his dark black eyes he sees the fleeing swans, calling out in shrilling screams. 

Around noon is when he died, the rock surface was wet with cold yet pure water. It was Clay’s day off today, his first in years. Often while he worked he wondered what could have happened if he had taken a different path, the road not taken. As a child he had loved the rolling hills and the raging mountains, but as he grew, he started to grow more distant from his true passion: nature. Clay was an adrenaline-seeking man with simple needs. Today he had spent walking back and forth on the mountain face, watching the birds moving and shifting. He envied their ability: the ability to fly, fly up and away. 

He died during one of his pacing periods. He looked out at the open land that was portrayed before him. “Beautiful,” he thought. But what he did not see was the scared crow that had bolted from a fight. The scared crow with black wings and red eyes. The scared crow, afraid, same as Clay. A gust of wind flew off of the crow’s port side wing. It darted along with its creator over the shoulder of Clay. The moment of shock was indescribable. Clay’s face expanded, like a lion in the air. He turned around as he stumbled back. 

Three steps, three steps back: one, two, three. 

The fourth step brought him up to the face of the cliff. His foot landed on the edge and his body stopped moving back. All was clear on the Western Front. But then it happened; the rocks fell from beneath him and he was cast out, like Adam by the hands of God. Was it God who set his fate? Clay leaned back, the expression in his eyes were those of a doomed man, raising his arms up to protect himself even though he knew what was to come. A last, fatal effort was given by him to reach back, but to no avail. At this moment, time stopped.

People have said that your life flashes before your eyes, right as you fade away. People have said that time stops, so that you can think and suffer as you come to realize that you are powerless against your fate. I would say that this latter one was true for Clay. 

The moment was like a slo-mo capture. To any other, it would seem like a sudden flash, burned into their eyes in a way that it would then replay over the next few days, months, years. But to the victim, it was like a lifetime. For Clay, it was like falling from space, looking down to see the grand distance; having a lot of time but never enough. I believe that there is a myth in Norse mythology that can relate. A golden ring. A golden ring that can grant its bearer all the gold in the world. But the gold is never enough; there is enough gold to fulfill the wish except for a tiny bit. The mind is fast–real fast–but it can never beat time. Time is the evil warlord who grants and then takes away. 

Time had stopped. Clay was falling, hands wide and face shocked. At that moment, Clay fell. Not his body, but he fell. Not real falling, more floating. Suspended in the air, Clay could see himself. Not himself, but his body. His body was suspended in the air, floating as if held up by invisible clouds. Clay sure was confused; you would be too. His body was there, but he was here. It seemed like hours as he stood, floated, by his body, confused and in a state of disbelief. Multiple times, he tried to shove himself back into his body but to be as successful as a goat trying to push a mountain. After his eighth, failed attempt at reunification, Clay simply stood, floated, in the late afternoon mist. He had ended up sitting on his body in an attempt to relax; how could he relax? Maybe seven minutes later, he appeared.

“Sorry I’m late. Normally I am right on time,” the mystery man exclaimed. 

To this, Clay got shocked, similarly to that once in a lifetime event that had happened a few hours earlier. As Clay looked as stunned as a beaver, the man settled himself on the human bench. 

“This is embarrassing; 3125 years of service, and not once have I been late,” the man continues, “And good golly, look at the time! Still not moving. Anyway, my name is Zohar. This may come to a bit of a shock to you, but you are dying. Moreover, about to die. Hope you are not afraid of heights. How are you doing?”
“Wait, I am dead?” Clay exclaimed in shock. As he said so, an unknown feeling started to rise in his stomach.

“Thought you would have figured that one out by now, to be totally honest. Yeah, you are dead, dying, about to die. Welcome to the Inbetween. Bad name, I know.”

“No, I am not dead,” Clay stubbornly argued. 

Clay looked away and up to see grand birds flying into the sky. He could see the swans, still fleeing from the crows. He could see that scared crow, fleeing the scene. He could see the trees, frozen in perfect harmony. He could see the frogs, laying dormant in the tall grass. 

“You said that this was the Inbetween, that means that I am not dead.”

“Fine, whatever you want to believe,” Zohar said as he started to move away. “You coming? Let’s take a walk.” 

At the snap of his fingers, Zohar disappeared into thin air, bringing Clay along for the ride. 

They reappeared in a city environment, the buildings were huge and the air was thick. They were in an alley, a dark alley, with trash riddled around and arguing up above. It was around three in the afternoon, kids were moving back home, careful to avoid strangers. A small, young boy ran in front of the alley, careful to not look inside. 

“Hey, kid. Kid! Where are we?” Clay called, but to no avail. 

The boy kept on running, as if Clay were not there. To this, Clay ran after him, Zohar walking slowly behind. 

“Kid, where am I?” Clay said as he stood in front of his face. But still, the kid could not see him. As Clay tried, stubbornly, to get the kid’s attention, a rustling sound came from inside that alley. Three men appeared, in dark clothes and with darker attitudes. The obvious leader, had brown hair and a nasty scar across his face, it seems as though it was from a cut, many years before, maybe from a knife. 

“Hey kid!” the leader called out. To this, the boy turned. His eyes grew and his legs spun. He bolted away. The men ran like cheetahs running after a hurt gazelle. As Clay watched the boy run, he tried to put himself in the way of the men, but to no success. The leader ran right through Clay, pushing through him as if he were not there. The men then caught up with the boy, who had hoped to lose them in another alley. It was a violent scene, the men tried to mug the boy but acted violently when he had nothing to give. 
It was twenty minutes later when she came. Twenty minutes of Clay feeling bad about being helpless. Twenty minutes of pain and suffering for that kid. By then, the men had left the child, out to seek some other innocent. To the broken, shut eyes of that young boy, she seemed to be an angel, descending from heaven. She bandaged his wounds and brought him home.

“Hey, I remember this,” Clay said in anger to Zohar, “what have you done?” 

“Nothing that has not already happened,” replied Zohar, and with the snap of his fingers, they were gone. 

This time they reappeared in a more beautiful area: the trees were golden; a pond sat pure and undisturbed; nature was clean and beautiful here. As far as Clay could see, it was natural: no city, no people, no hatred. As he stared around, a bus came rolling down the northern hill. It was one of those big yellow buses, fleeting dozens of students. As it came rolling to a stop, 25 kids came out. 25 busting kids around the age of 15. That young boy was there, he was more grown and with dark black hair and blue glasses. That angelic girl was also there, she was also grown. She had long brown hair and a classic sense of fashion. It was a field trip for the tenth grade of Jackson school academy. It was a good day, a wonderful day. As the children scattered, the two children stood at a cliff, not saying anything, just watching as the sun set. As the sun started to bleed, and the sky lit up, the girl said one thing, “Isn’t it beautiful?” During this time, Clay stood silent, watching the event unfold. Silent as a smile creeped onto his face. And with that, another snap. 

This time, they ended up back atop that high, beauty of a mountain, the one with the pond and the crows and the fleeing swans and the trees locked in a beautiful dance. The pond was in utter chaos, two crows were fighting in the middle. Their beaks were open in an eternal state of rage. It was probably something small, what they were fighting over. Their wings were arched and their faces were contracted. The beauty and craftsmanship and love that someone, a higher power, had put into them. We often take them for granted, after all, they are just another everyday thing. But every single one has their own story. Every single one has its own mind. Every single one is important. Beauty in the chaos. 

Zohar was at the cliff by now, the same one that Clay fell from mere seconds earlier. Warially, Clay approached, “What was that?”
“Nothing that you did not already know.”

“Was that my . . .”

“Yes. Those were your memories,” Zohar interrupted without a glance, “now reflect on what I just showed you.”

“Aingeal,” Clay said quietly after thinking hard.

“Yet you let her slip away. Now you know that death is around every corner, value your time. Don’t take for granted what is there. Don’t waste it. Everyone dies, but not everyone livesGoodbye.” And with a final snap, Zohar disappeared like the fine morning mist. When Zohar faded from view, Clay started to feel a tug on his chest. It was a rather weak tug, like a child pulling on their parent’s leg. As the pull started to grow stronger, and Clay started to be pulled back into his body, he could see all the events of the last minute. He could see the peaceful swans flying away. He could see an outcast crow fleeing instead of fighting. He could see two rival crows fighting in the disturbed pond. He could see the trees wrapped in an aura of harmony. He could see the clouds, floating undisturbed. He could see the grass blowing gently. He could feel his peace inside the chaos.

And with this, he was back in his body. The fall was quick, like a flash, Clay felt calm in the face of death. He felt truly free even though he was at the edge of death. Clay closed his eyes and could only see dark. 

Upon opening his eyes, he could see that angelic woman, Aingeal. 

“He will make a full recovery, the fall was not life-threatening,” a nurse was saying.

“That’s great,” Aingeal responded. As the nurse left to return to work, “Oh, you are awake. This is amazing! You are very lucky.” “Don’t try to speak,” Aingeal said as Clay tried to utter from his mouth.

“I love you,” Clay released from his burning mouth, “always have. You are my star, there to guide me home.” To this, Ainegeal smiled and looked away as she blushed. As she did so, Clay looked up and could see the general aura of Zohar. “Thank you,” he mouthed.

 

Ethan

VT

15 years old

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