Make It Count

Make It Count

Carl the pathologist pushes the hospital bed your body lies on.

Your body started decaying days before, and it filled your room with an unendurable stench. Your nurses tried to hide it. But you knew they were disgusted. And all you could do was to lie on your bed and rot.

Now your soul has left the body. There’s nothing left to stave off bacteria from eating your body inside out.

Today, Carl is in a jolly mood …

It’s almost lunchtime. Sausage and mashed potatoes in his lunchbox. And by 3 PM he can enjoy a well-deserved weekend.

He greets his colleague Alex on your journey underground.

Hold the elevator!

Floor 3. Floor 2. Floor 1.

Basement.

Finally —you’re at the morgue.

It’s not eerie or dark.

It’s well-lit and got renovated just a few years ago. The white, sterile walls would overwhelm your eyes if they could still perceive.

He locks your body in. Someplace safe. Your body… your flesh, bones and paperlike skin.

But your paperlike skin won’t matter anymore. Now you are a black body bag. A part of daily work, like a hamburger to a McDonald’s employee.

It’s time for lunch. Carl the pathologist microwaves his sausage and mashed potatoes and turns on the TV. According To Jim is on the air. He laughs to goofy Jim Belushi with your body next door.

The hospital room you died in gets cleaned.

Your specks of blood. Shitstains on the leg of your bed. The particles of your paper skin. The last meager echoes of your existence get wiped away.

Tomorrow morning, someone else will occupy that room.

None will ever know that is the place where you — a once proud man with many stories to tell — took farewell to us living.

Because you were just another brick in the wall.

Or will you meet this demise?

Before his execution, Socrates said:

I have good hope that there is yet something remaining for the dead, and as has been said of old, some far better thing for the good than for the evil.

Live a good life. You will either face death by the grace of God or be remembered by those you leave behind. For as you know, a man only dies the last time his name is spoken.

Until next time,

– Alexander Contrarian