Solitary

CW: Gore, cannibalism, violence, and suicide/self-harm

It’s the smell. That’s the worst part. Not just its repugnance, but its persistence. Its determination. Like a huge engine with limitless fuel, its power is endless, and its effects inescapable. In fact, it is the smell that has caused my desperation and ultimate madness–not the physical decay, or even the bugs, but the smell: a combination of bad meat and unwashed laundry, it crawls into my nose like a parasite, and showers don’t help (more on that later). It clings to me like death. Like death, that’s a good one. I’m no writer, but Alan, old boy, that’s a keeper.

You wouldn’t know it to look at me now, with all the destruction by body has endured since my death, but when it happened, it was without flair or drama. I wish I had one of those highly descriptive, multi-layered tales of my last moments that could be shared at all the parties, but I don’t. Then again, there will be no more parties in my future … you know, because I’m dead. Yes, unfortunately, the story of my death is rather uninteresting; it is, dare I say, quite a bore. It is the part that comes afterward that holds all the … well, not the excitement, per se, but the juice.

It was an aneurysm, or a stroke, or some other fast-acting, no-nonsense, push-button end. I can’t tell you what happened precisely, and there is no coroner’s report because I didn’t take the time to call one, but I definitely died. It was quick, painless, and without warning. I think God must’ve looked down at me and said, ‘Time’s up, buddy, out of the pool.’ Of course, if God had anything to do with it, he pushed the wrong button.

It was two in the morning, and I was sitting at the apartment’s kitchen table, alone as always. The remnants of a TV dinner had been discarded while I nursed my second non-alcoholic pint. I know, why bother, right? Sort of like beginning your day with a decaf. It’s pointless, true, but we cope the way we cope, and when one’s dependency on the real thing is a ruiner of worlds one must cope carefully. I had my laptop open and was mindlessly queuing up another shameless video, caring not a spit about the incoming content, when I fell nose-first into the keyboard (the ensuing nonsense mashed into the search bar no doubt wreaking havoc on my online algorithm).

Your thinking, Man, you didn’t die, you just passed out, and that’s a logical deduction, though I swear the drink was non-alcoholic. And to be honest, I had that same thought when I came to sometime later. Considering the complete lack of pain and my own recovery from whatever that was, I assumed I was coming down with something. This was further confirmed when I lifted myself from the drool-crusted keyboard, wandered to the bathroom mirror and had a look. I was sick, alright. You bet. Later, I would think back to this moment and know it to be the first time in my life to have, in a very literal sense, come face-to-face with death. At the time, however, I misunderstood. Woah, I thought to myself, Alan, old buddy. That’s too many late nights, your self-pity is starting to show. And I went to bed.

There’s an old saying that jokes about sleep: YOU CAN SLEEP WHEN YOU’RE DEAD! it boasts. Well, I’ve got news for you ignorant T-shirt-slinging, bumper sticker comedy has-beens: no, you can’t. I can laugh about this now, because why not. 

I laid there for hours reflecting on the strangeness of it. If I was sick like the mirror had mercilessly informed me, why was it that I felt fine? If I had faceplanted onto my laptop from exhaustion, why was I now wide awake? After fruitless attempts to settle into the dream world, and multiple shifts in the tangled bed sheets, I decided I was hungry and went back to the kitchen. If sleep was not to be had, perhaps comfort could be found through food.

As soon as I opened the fridge, the hunger came again, but with a vicious tug. There wasn’t a lot of food, but it should have been enough. After I ate everything from the fridge, feasting like a freed captive, I tore into the cupboards. Dry bread, raw potatoes, it all went down the pipe with an unusual sense of panic, and my small apartment was left bare of consumables. Grocery day wasn’t meant to be for another week, but it had just moved up on the schedule. It would need to happen right away, so I set supply restock as a task to be completed immediately after work.

Fortunately, my work was primarily remote support done from home, and it allowed me to choose my own hours; so, on this night of insomnia, I was able to both start and quit early, with no loss of productivity. I won’t lie to you by saying that I liked this job—working in IT Customer Service was almost as miserable and disappointing as falling down dead at a ten-dollar folding table at two in the morning—but I was good at it, and it paid the bills. If you’ve been paying attention so far, you’ll no doubt snicker at this part, knowing that I had done a shift while dead. I was a bona fide working stiff!! But try to curb your judgements. The ship carrying that harsh realization was still a league or two from port.

I came home with an armful of groceries, and while I sorted, I reflected on the odd looks I had received from fellow shoppers and the store clerks. It was clear they had been reacting to my sickly appearance, and this was the first real indication that my condition had worsened, though I still felt okay. 

It was later that evening, after once more ravaging every consumable item in sight with the helplessness of a dog, that I first noticed the smell. It was a ghastly body odour that assaulted me like a bat from a high corner. There was no question that it came from me, and I was appalled. All else forgotten (including my rising grocery bill), I focused all attention on the eradication of this funk. 

Even in the shower, lathered in body wash, the stink prevailed. I scrubbed and sloshed under the hot water, holding my breath and craning my neck upwards in a futile effort to escape the grip of the stench. In the steaming confines beneath the high-pressure showerhead, I soon discovered my skin had begun to peel and flake like bad cheese. Stunned, water pelting my motionless form, I marveled at the sight of my exposed bones. There was no blood. My forearms, thighs and part of my chest had been stripped, the tattered remains working to clog the drain at my toes, but there was no blood. In a daze, I stepped from the shower and, taking a washcloth from the rack, casually cleared the condensation from the mirror.

The reflection showed a man whose condition was far worse than mine. His wide eyes stared from above a rotting nose; there was a gaping hole in his right cheek; he had no lips, and one eyelid dangled like an old screen door. It wasn’t until I backed away from the mirror and his movements matched my own that I understood. The shower had been a poor choice. The heat and moisture had graciously exposed not just my insides, but also my predicament. It led me to confront what I was so slow to see, holding my hand like a stranger with a lost child. Living this solitary lifestyle, who knows how long I’d have continued like this. Thankfully, it had only been twenty-four hours. Lots of time remaining for me to process this unique turn of events. I don’t know who to thank, but I suppose, for that small kindness anyway, some thanks are in order.

I think I handled this revelation quite well. To my credit, those stages of grief the psychologists speak of were, for me, greatly streamlined. It seems I’m an efficient fellow even in death. I blasted from denial to acceptance in the time it took me to get dressed that day. As I reflect on it now, could not this rushed progression suggest that it was not grief I was feeling, but something deeper? Was I displaying some sort of red flag? Leave it for the undead therapists, I say. My own conclusion is slightly more practical: the fast-track was due to the triumphant return of my hunger. Let’s skip the mumbo jumbo, boys. I’m famished!

With acceptance came another reality. With my newfound high-intake diet, even if I were to continue working as a dead-serious, mindless employee (no, sir!) still collecting a paycheck, I would never make enough money to fund my food expenses. Furthermore, walking the aisles of the local Food-Mart with things missing from my face would not do. Thus, having decided to quit my job effective immediately, I needed a solid plan that would ease the enormous and relentless hunger.

We can skip the next part, I think. And not because it’s the messiest part (it is), but because I expect that you already know what happens next; also, I don’t want to lower your opinion of me—I’d like to keep you on my side. Hopefully, an explanation will suffice. 

It can’t really be called cannibalism. That’s number one. I had become a monster the second I rose from my final resting place at the kitchen table. I am a reject from both heaven and hell, transformed into something inarguably not human. Number two, I didn’t start with people. My initial solution was to feast on animals: rodents, pets, strays, rabbits, roadkill, and the like. It was harmless, considering my situation. But, as you can imagine, this was not a reliable source, and each meal was nowhere near enough for one my size. Deer would have been the way to go, but I live in the city, and these are hard to find. Finally, if it serves to redeem me at all, I hate doing it. The guilt is something I take with me everywhere. Just like the smell.

And there it is. I’ve arrived right back where I started. The stink. I wish I could tell you it’s my guilt driving this, my final discourse with the outside world, but that would be a lie. What remains of my body has continued to rot since that first day, and the smell of my decay has been right there with it. The vile, penetrating odour has driven me to madness, and from the madness has risen a desperate need to escape. Unfortunately, it is very difficult to destroy that which is already dead. The movies have that part right, at least.

I’ve tried almost everything. 

My first failed attempt was a nosedive into the grill of an oncoming Mack truck. My face had already been ruined; now it was destroyed. I could have been crushed beneath the truck, but instead the impact threw me clear, and I was left laying in the ditch. There was no pain.

Next, I tried a leap from one of downtown’s high-rises. The plunge from ten stories up wrecked both my legs, and I lost an arm when it caught on a passing balcony. Again, it was painless; now I walk with a stumbling gait, right foot trailing behind me like an untrained hound, and I eat my meals one-handed.

I tried to light myself on fire, but this was strangely ineffective. Despite a thick application of oil and other flammables, I was somehow immune. Like firewood after a night of heavy rain, my flesh smoked a little but would not burn. Fire was out. How about water?

I chained myself to a stack of barbell plates and tried to sleep with the fishes. Interesting. I know I’m breathing air right now, so I can tell you that that the dead do breathe. But on the day of my long swim, I learned that they also do not. I sat at the bottom of the river that day, and once my lungs had filled with dirty water, my body simply waited. Like a parked car with the ignition off, all was quiet. My heels drummed like I was in line at the bank, frustration rising, for what must have been an hour. 

Now, sitting here at the very same table that hosted my undignified departure not so long ago, I pen this account of my last days; and I’ve prepared for one last try. 

I’m not an engineer, but I think I did a fine job putting together an amateur guillotine. With some rope, an old windowpane, and an improvised pulley, I have what should, barring some strange complication, remove my head from my shoulders. Each practice run has been a success and I am confident it will do the job. Not bad for someone with two broken legs, one arm, and half a face. Not too bad.

If it works—if the beheading successfully sends me to the other side, then I win. If it fails—if, as with all prior efforts, I am forced to stay in this world after my severing, it wouldn’t be all bad. In fact, whoever might find me in this … alternate version of myself won’t need to read this little note. My decapitated head would be able to fill you in on all the details. In fact, I yearn for such camaraderie! I would natter and chatter for hours with you, I could rest on your knee while I shared all the truths (and the lies) about death. You could ask all the questions you wanted and stay all day. Of course, all of this—the visiting, I mean—heavily depends on your ability, whoever you are, to handle the smell. 

The smell, above all else, will, undoubtedly, remain.