Pierced in the Side
March. A Friday. I watched him, sat by his side for more than two days while he writhed on the ground and clutched his side. Pawed at it, like it was lit by a bonfire from within.
We weren’t close to any doctor. I know the superficial things: administering pills, bracing sprains, disinfecting superficial wounds. Surgery, what goes on inside human skin, that is beyond my purview.
Helpless. I’d trade places with him if I could.
Instead, I sat on the ground with him. Mopped his brow with a cool cloth. Gave him a piece of leather strap to bite down on when the waves of pain assaulted him. Refused to leave him to eat, and napped when he was spent.
He looked up at me once, a sheen of cold sweat dotting his blueish face, and he whispered You’re a fine leader, Sir. I’d follow you anywhere. Nothing scares you. Not even watching me die.
I gripped his hand without the heart to ask him. Can I follow you now? My own selfish ponderings seemed a rude insertion into his misery, a send-off into the hereafter with a final grand letdown.
No.
I held his hand and asked for a song on the fiddle. Something lyric and upbeat. I smiled at him for as long as he could see, while I tapped my foot to the rhythm and prayed for his dying breath to mark me.
Thank you, Sir. It was a sputter. Weak. His face a mask of release, his mouth upturned. I think he fluttered through me, scraped across my soul.
And so he died.
This post is part of the series Death Becomes Me. It is a series of fiction. If this is your first visit to the series, please click here to read the first installment, go here for the second, go here for the third, click here for the fourth and go here for the fifth.
Death becomes you:)
I hope I made him seem more appealing in this one, Roger. I *think* I’ve found his voice anyway.
Nothing in what you wrote, maybe other than the fiddle, says Civil War. But, that is what this brings to mind. Either that or the teams pushing west to build the railroads (of course).
Fiddles have been called fiddles for a long time.
I guess Nero did fiddle while Rome burned.
Don’t know what time period you are in although it feels 1800′s but I was reminded of this song. Tennessee Ernie Ford does a quite different but very powerful version of this as well. Written in 1861 about a soldier from Massachusetts, it was popular with all sides by the end of the Civil War.
If I’m evoking the 1800′s by now, I’d say I’ve nailed the voice for sure.
Though, I’m sure that’s coming more from what they’re doing than by what he’s saying. But, whatever. I didn’t have to WRITE it in the language of the period to take you there, and that was my whole point with this exercise.
Thanks for sharing this particular song. It might be useful at some point in my off-the-blog process.
I’m not sure who my tears are for, the one that had to stay, the one that was released, all of us who wish for release but are never granted it, or those that want to stay but are released way too soon…the latter, yes, the tears are for the latter because to cry for the former is way to selfish and…wrong.
The man who died was in his twenties. He died too soon. Your tears were not wasted.
He IS more a more appealing character today, Andra. Shows there’s much more to him than his preoccupation with self. He has fortitude and compassion showing now. It is almost unbearable to sit with someone who is dying and be wholly unable to change, ease, or halt the process.
I also thought the time frame to be very early in our country’s history and the pioneer trek westward (maybe your chosen photo influenced that).
It is hard to craft a complex character. None of this will ever appear anywhere but here, but it will flavor other things.
The word ‘fiddle’ is of a certain period. I think that was today’s biggest language clue.
Well done, Andra. The use of “sir” makes me think your character is military, and, as others have intimated, the fiddle brings a period to mind. You’ve really developed a sense of place in this entry and I wonder if this is a turning point for the main character. Whatever, you’ve done it well.
This is backstory, really. Helping me write into a sense of voice for this character. With this one, I feel like I finally got it, but carrying it on for a whole book is more challenging. Luckily, I have the lines in place already. Now, I can start coloring them in.
You’ve inserted a rod of strength into the character, which adds to his complexity. I now wonder what he has seen and been through that makes him want to die. I think before I was only look at the fact that he was looking for a way out, and although I assumed he’d simply “had enough” of life, I wasn’t really curious about what he’d experienced. This was a very interesting turn in the development of the story. He’s an interesting guy! D
I’ve always wondered why people who appear strong to others have a death wish. When I think back, I’ve known one person in life who’s killed himself. He was a business and community leader, but I didn’t know him well. I knew someone online who committed suicide in spectacular fashion. It made the national news at the time, and I don’t know if anyone saw it coming. He was certainly a leader, well regarded by many.
The desire to die is a key piece of this character, but perhaps I have focused on that part of him too much. In building his voice, it does color everything.
I so want to know what brought this guy here.
It will be in my novel.
There are some amazing snapshots in this series, Andra: almost filmic. Beyong my experience but compelling just the same.
Many stories are beyond my experience, Kate, but I enjoy them all the same.
(curses, beyond, sorry….)
The irony here, if this is the same character each time, is that it could be argued that the very good deeds he reviles himself for, or feels jealous of himself for, are the very ones that make him a worthy specimen to survive.
That’s exactly how I see him. You always give such great insights into these imaginary people, Jessie. Thank you.
Telling portrait, Andra . . .