“Remember Eggs,” he wrote on a post-it note, sticking it to the cabinet so he would remember tomorrow. Instinctually, he threw his keys and wallet to the counter, both landing in their usual spots. From the kitchen he could see the television, snatching the remote from its place on the counter and furiously clicking the power button, slightly out of range of its signal. When the screen finally lit, there was the news, recounting the events he had missed while he was away at work. He usually preferred to watch the game—the Jets and Pats were playing that night—but an occasional dose of the news allowed him to contribute more topically to conversations at work.
Nothing new had happened; it seldom did. Another politician in another scandal, a woman miraculously cured from a terminal illness, no good in the Middle East, and an earthquake continuing to leave many without homes and lives. He half-watched the story on the earthquake, debating whether he should send any money to support those who lost their homes before ultimately forgetting about it when the segment went to commercial break.
Opening the fridge, he found the half-eaten roasted chicken he had purchased last week beside the final box of mashed potatoes, already half-eaten. He took both out, placing the second chicken leg and a large helping of mashed potatoes onto a paper plate. Promptly, he put both in the microwave, instinctually plugging in two minutes, which would leave some of the potatoes cold and leave him with a decision whether or not he wanted to heat it longer or just eat it.
His phone buzzed in his pocket, drawing his attention from a commercial for a new medicine that apparently would cure arthritis with a slew of potential side effects. Eve had texted him again: “Good night! Love you.” He smiled, wishing she was there with him and not working the late shift at the hospital. They had dated for years and, if she was ready, he would marry her tomorrow. Yet, she had never been eager to rush anything—particularly their relationship—and he did not want to bother her with a discussion on the subject. For now, he was content spending every evening (except those when he stayed late at the office or she at the hospital) as lovers sitting on the couch and watching television.
The microwave began to beep; it was permitted only three tones before he opened its door. Just as he expected, the chicken was hot while the inside of the mashed potatoes were still cold. Staring blankly at his plate for some time, he decided against heating it more, not particularly interested in the necessary thirty second time investment. A fork and knife were taken from their respective drawer, depleting the fork supply entirely. The stack of dishes, utensils, and tupperware had grown tall in the sink, but he could afford another night of putting it off. He would clean the dishes tomorrow. Right as commercials ended, he approached the couch, settling into his usual spot.
Halfway into the news report, his left arm began to ache; he blamed it on the mind-numbing work he had done all week. His left arm likely sat too long in a strange position, unnoticed by his brain as it crunched numbers and thought of all the words he wanted to call his boss. It felt only slightly different than the usual aches, only prompting him to bend and straighten his arm for relief. Instead, the sensation began to extend to his shoulder, then the left side of his chest. It now drew his attention away from the report of the miracle survivor, rolling his shoulder as he grabbed his side with his right hand. The pain began to fade, initially allowing his worry to fade with it until the previously aching regions began to numb. He lost sensation in his left arm and, soon, the left side of the chest. It could only be that his arm had somehow “fallen asleep,” yet he was not convinced, worried for much worse as he shook his arm more violently.
Breathing faster, he stretched his arm while rolling his shoulder, accidentally tipping his meal onto the floor. He let out a slew of curses while he bent down to clean up the mess. A sudden pain took his chest. He never knew such pain and could not simply blame his arm for falling asleep, the sensation growing every moment, radiating across his chest, causing him to double over with a cry, grunting as he stepped into the spilled mashed potatoes. He reached for his phone, realizing it was no longer in his pocket. Turning to the kitchen, his chest growing ever tighter, he did not see his phone, eyes desperately darting around the area for the device. He fell to his knees, clutching his chest, the television man speaking calmly still of the woman who survived. Eve had taught him the symptoms of a heart attack.
The realization took him quickly, taunting his former ignorance, laughing at the mere suggestion that his work had made him ache or that his arm had just naturally numbed, as though the prospect had been so obvious to a twenty-nine year old man who only began to feel the slightest burden of age. He had no complications in the past, often considered at the prime of his health. His mother had never suffered from anything of the sort, but his father had. And his grandfather and grandmother had both perished before the very same affliction that was now taking him now, both rather young. It was obvious! He should’ve seen it coming. He never told Eve how young his grandparents had been when they died and, had he done so, he wouldn’t be here now, on the floor, clutching his heart, dying. She could’ve brought him in and checked it out and the doctors would’ve found the problem and they should’ve fixed it…
He had no time to dwell on the past, no time at all except to find the phone. With limited mobility, he crawled to the kitchen, not making it far before his arms gave out, followed soon by his knees, leaving him lying on the floor. Still, he dragged the deadweight of his body along the floor, dying faster than he could move. He should’ve seen this coming.
The phone vibrated just then—not from the kitchen, but the couch. It must have slipped from his pocket when he sat down, taunting him as the light of the phone joined the television in illuminating the room, the sound of the news report still playing: the miracle woman now explained how God had blessed her, had cared for her, and had given her life that she would use well.
He’d wasted so much of life. The seconds he stared at nothing, the time he spent studying something he did not care about, the nights making love to a prior woman he did not love, every moment he spent staring at the pages without inspiration… They were all just moments wasted. He lost so much time; so much of these twenty-nine years were meaningless, lackluster, spent in ways that brought him no closer to where he sat today: time that could’ve put him on top, that could’ve made him great, that he could use now.
He pulled himself to the couch, losing more consciousness, losing more life. With his remaining energy, he swung for the couch, knocking the phone from the cushions to the floor. It was too far away as he felt his heartbeat slow, an invisible hand gripping his chest, squeezing the life from him, taking it and laughing as his only hope was too far from his hand. His vision began to blur and he knew it was too late. He would die.
Ten seconds remain. He did not know how he knew this, but chose not to waste his time with thoughts about the remaining time as seconds reduced to nine.
He had so much left to do in life. Eyes shifted across the room to his desk where his computer sat closed as it had for the past month. Words went untyped on the pages for nearly three months, knowing no inspiration. Still, he thought of the characters everyday, dancing around in his head, calling to him, calling for their time on the page, and he did not fulfill their wishes. He knew he could have his name on the New York Times Bestseller list and his characters on screen; he knew it, yet, with the loss of this ninth second, he knew now only that he would never see such a book, seeing only his characters now dying slowly, fading from mind, knowing no imagination to bring them a happy ending.
Eight seconds left and the news report continued.
“Is there anything you’d like to tell the people at home who are fighting as hard as you did?”
“Trust the Lord, trust your friends, trust your family, and keep fighting till the end. Just keep fighting.”
No fighting would bring the phone any closer in the seven seconds remaining. A promotion was in order for him at his work, his boss alluded to it yielding a true smile unlike all the others he had formerly given to the man in charge. How he loathed working there, but his heart flew at the thought of the promotion. Now, the very same heart was trapped in a cage that shrunk with every second past, pulling him from this office, from the miserable paperwork that he would do for eternity if he could just stay.
Six seconds and plans for the future crossed his mind. He wanted a big house to live in and with that promotion, he may just have had it. A big house with a pool and three stories, outside of the city, outside of this apartment, preparing real dinners every night instead of these crappy store-bought dinners. He would be a rich man and he would never have to worry about the bills. Wherever he was going now, there would be no money. He would never again know earthly luxury. He never had the chance to live the Rockefeller experience: pockets full of cash. Now, the closest he could get to Rockefeller is if he met him in hell.
Fear took him at five seconds with the thought of hell. He believed in Jesus Christ and the saints and God above and the Devil below. So too, he believed in hell. Had he lived a sinless life? What made him worthy of the clouds and white robes? Why would angels carry him to a paradise unparalleled by any and all? Why had he not found these answers when he lived: were they truly unanswerable or did he just never give them the time of day? He did waste much of his mortal time. Now, he feared because of it. He feared in the end when he would get his answer in just four seconds.
He wanted four children, two boys and two girls, getting an education in a California private school; one would be a lawyer, one would be creative—an author or actor or something of the sort—and one would break barriers—beat the world in a way no man had before: conquer death, better life, make peace with this world, make peace for this world, and never know an enemy; he didn’t know what the final one would do, maybe the child wouldn’t know what to do, but they would all be loved; he always heard you loved nothing more than your own child in this life, yet he never had this love and he craved it, his heart aching, not from the lack of blood pumping through his body, but the love he never knew.
At three seconds, he thought of his mother, who could not live a happy day without her son if what he heard about having children was true. She loved him more than herself, breaking her back the first eighteen years of his life to keep him off drugs, keep him in school, send him off to college, send him out into the world, make it so he could marry a nice girl that would support his dreams and love him, make it so he could have dreams, show him how to live, show him how to live without a father, and give him a life he could love. She could not stop this life’s end though and that thought brought a tear to his eye as he let out a gurgled final word: “Mom.”
His phone flashed again, a notification from a word game begging him to spend his last two seconds playing. He paid it no attention, looking instead at the message at the bottom of his screen. “Good night! Love you.” He should have proposed. He could have died a married man, or at least a man engaged to the woman that he loved. It was clear now that she would’ve said yes. They would be married tomorrow and soon after would come the promotion, the house, his book, the kids, and the life he dreamed and knew he would have. It all perished now with the passing of this second. She would return home that night too late to save him; he would be dead; she would cry over his body and try to save him; she could reach his phone and realize that he could not; help would arrive too late; he would be dead; she would be grief-stricken; he would be dead. He could not help but feel guilt as the second-to-last second fleeted. He loved her and she loved him. At least, he would die loved.
Before his phone turned black, he looked at the time he would die: 9:27. This was his last day; his last minute; his last second. He did not live his dreams; he did not live life. Everything was fading to black as his heart slowed to a stop. It was not his time to go. He was a twenty-nine year old with so much more life ahead of him: marriage and children and growing old and seeing the world at its highest and lowest. Too recently had the days passed when he was young. Too recently had he graduated high school, had he graduated college, had he gotten his first job, had he met the love of his life; it was not his time!
His last meal was a reheated refrigerated dinner—unmemorable—something he had every night that week and something similar the week prior. He had no drop of alcohol in his blood, completely sober in death. No steak or seafood lavished his pallet, only the dull taste of the chicken leg, minimally flavored by the supermarket it came from. For some reason, that humored him, and he let out a final guffaw in this final second. He would miss the Jets game that night, one that would make or break their season: more would be saddened by the outcome of the game than his death; that saddened him while he chortled, a final tear escaping from his eye at the thought of all those who loved him and those who did not. And as the second met its end, the final thing he saw was the post-it on the kitchen cabinet: “Remember Eggs.” He’d forgotten about the eggs. So, in this final second, he did not pray or plead or sob. His life did not flash before his eyes, nor did he smile. Instead, with a single tear and a chuckle on his tongue, he took with him the thought of the eggs, knowing he would need to go to the store to buy more tomorrow.
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