Short Story Friday! For the Umpteenth time, on a Sunday. I thought about changing it to Sundays, but I would still be late, and as Mom so kindly pointed out, "a procrastination blog deserves some procrastinating." So it remains a Friday thing. And the story I’ve been anticipating putting up has finally made its way into my virtual fingers, My Deadman by Haillie Broberg. Yes it is a little longer than the usual, but it is fantastic and will hold you to the end. I’m sure you’ll love it she’s a wonderful writer, and the story really gets you thinking,
So without further ado,
My Deadman
Along the way friends and family approached, bringing with them distractions. I happily gave into said diversions just as my Deadman began to limp as he walked. He was hurting. Bruises, as well as despair, clearly marked his face; still he kept beside me. When the gathering took notice of my Deadman they tried to help, tried to heal him. They only made him worse. Try and try as they might my Deadman only got weaker and weaker. Soon his legs fell out from beneath him and a trickle of blood spilt from his forehead.
Eventually, emerging from my ignorance, I perceived the condition of my Deadman. I grew worried and dragged him away, for he could no longer walk on his own. Bloodied and gouged were his limbs, and his face was plastered with the red liquid. Fingers were missing, replaced by gruesome stubs. I put a shaking hand over my mouth in horror as I knelt beside him . His head I laid in my lap, stroking his face gently to show him I was there. My brow furrowed with regret for the mistreatment of my Deadman; for putting him off so. I bandaged the wounds, hoping they would continue to heal on their own. Deep inside I knew they wouldn’t. I needed to take him somewhere- somewhere where he could get better! Where we could get better.
Out there, among the hills, I spotted a great and humble building. This, I somehow knew, was where I needed to bring my Deadman and myself. Taking a shaking breath, I reached under his armpits and tried to lift him. I stumbled, defeated, and lay him back down. Frustrated and weary, a few tried tears escaped from beneath my lids.
“Need help?” A face appeared above me. Though I knew her not she was willing to help me. I nodded eagerly as more tears came to my eyes at the kindness and generosity of this individual. She leaned down and took my Deadman’s feet as I wrapped my arms under his armpits and over his stomach. His face pressed against mine. I could hear his strained and raspy breaths.
We carried him like that between us all the way to the building. She led the way to the doors and then further on inside. We made our way through the crowds of people to an empty seat where I could sit with my Deadman. With a quick nod and a grateful glance on my part, she departed from us to find her own seat. My eyes wandered over the place, observing that almost everyone in the room had a Deadman of their own. Each looked and seemed different. Some in far worse a condition then my own and others much better. My seat was next to a young lady, only a few years older than myself, I guessed. I sat down but my Deadman was in no condition to sit or even bend. He couldn't for his legs were beaten and bloodied. I turned to the woman and asked as politely as I could manage, “My Deadman can’t sit right on the chairs. If I keep his head half on my lap, may I set his legs on yours?”
She angled her head slightly, her nose scrunching a little in disgust as she took in my Deadman’s appearance. Then a wave of pity washed over her expression. She started to say something- ‘No’, I thought- but she clamped her mouth firmly shut, shook her head and took a breath.
She let out a hesitant but meaningful, “Yes.”
So I picked up his legs, though it pained him, and laid my Deadman’s feet on her lap, gently. I then took his head and shoulders and placed them in my own.
As he rested I observed all the people around me. I saw hypocrites and doubters.
A man walked up to another who was sitting a few seats away from me.
He said, “Look at what you have done to your Deadman! Your evil has ruined him!” He judged the seated man and I felt sorry, but the judger walked away with a haughty scowl and his own Deadman starting to limp behind him....
My Deadman moaned in pain and I anxiously returned all my attention to him. His cheeks were hollow, blood painted upon them. One eye was closed up, black and blue with swelling, the other was bloodshot and distant. I took blankets and covered him, desperately trying to make him more comfortable; to cover his wounds. He continued to groan and convulse and I panicked not knowing what to do! I pushed my hair back, hard, from my head, almost sobbing from anxiety.
I thought to myself that maybe speaking to my Deadman would help ease his mind off the pain. So I talked and talked about my life and silly things that didnt matter. He knew, though, what I was really thinking and feeling and what I had really done. Suddenly, he cried out in anguish as dirt was rubbed deep in his wounds, and gashes appeared on his torso as the words left my mouth. I was shocked at the sight of my Deadman who was tattered and torn, almost to his last breath. I swiveled my head desperately for anyone who was willing to help me; anyone who could save my Deadman’s life. Everyone else was on their knees and their Deadman were dying- each one breathing his last.
“Oh, please, Deadman, please don't die! Please don’t die!” I pleaded with tears streaming down my dusty face. I wrapped my arms around his head and held him close to my chest as if the sounds of my breathing could help his. I leaned down over his face, my tears dripping on him, making streaks in the blood and grime. “Don’t die,” I shakily whispered. “I’m sorry for not listening to your whispers! I’m-I’m sorry for wasting my time with distractions!” Choked sobs were realised in hiccups from from my throat as it closed. “I’’m sorry that I didn’t tend to your injuries and for thinking you a burden or chore! For trying to forget your hurts that I caused. And I’m sorry, (oh so sorry),” I squeaked, “that I didn’t treat you right, my Deadman! So please, please, please don’t die!” And again I pleaded in a whisper this time, my voice quavering, “Please don’t die, Deadman.”
As I wept over him, my Deadman died.
But in three days he rose again.
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