Memoirs of a Causality (working title)

Memoirs of a Causality

Death came in the blink of an eye.

His eyes were open; There was pandemonium all around in one moment then, a fraction of a second later, darkness. Just as suddenly, they flashed open again to a scene of chaotic serenity. In a manner of speaking, the moment before death was the most peaceful he had ever known. A cacophony of sights, sounds, and sensations were taking place all around, though strangely the experience was like a muted action movie. Violence sounds and sights were all around him, though it seemed as if he was separated from it all; a bystander among the horde. Alone? No, ignored would more accurately describe his circumstance. All the colors were subdued, there was no reverberation or shockwaves from the flashes that he saw. It was like being in a sensory vacuum and only sight remained.

He had sprained his ankle the day before, running from position to position, passing on a message from headquarters. With all electronic devices having been rendered inoperable, runners were the only way of disseminating information. It had been bad sprain too. Oddly, it did not hurt any longer. Along with the apparent loss of all his senses save for sight, came the blissful lack of pain. He did, however, sense something was very wrong. The lack of pain, though refreshing, brought with it a feeling of hollowness, as if there was supposed to be a pain. A lot of pain.

Clods of dirt and grass, bits of rock and sand mixed with shredded brush and blood-soaked mud, cascaded through the air. It landed all about him and those wordlessly screaming nearby. He could see it bouncing off his equipment and uniform though could not feel it. As his eyes darted between his final blink, he noticed his own life's blood spurting forth, combining itself with the aerial display about him. It was seeing this that seemed to usher in the distant ringing in his ears. It drew closer, louder, bringing. concussive blasts, sharp snaps of gunfire, and shrieks of agony with it. The loudest of these last were his own.

The edges of his vision began to narrow. Though he was only nineteen, he was fully aware that he was experiencing his final moment on this earth. As his senses came back into full functionality, he was aware of everything again, though his ankle did not hurt even now. As he screamed the last breath out of his lungs he reached down to his abdomen with the only arm that seemed to work and realized that everything from the hips down was gone. There was no stemming the blood loss from his severed limbs. Death was quickly approaching. The exposed nerves and tissue of the ruined flesh were peppered with falling debris sending icy shots of pain to his brain that was already going into shock from the mass of information it was being bombarded with along with the dwindling supply of blood.

As his lungs emptied, they refused to refill. Instead of closing, his eyes shot further open, feeling like they were bulging out of their sockets. He wanted to squeeze them shut but they would not, or could not, acknowledge the command. Just like his burning lungs, his eyes refused to work for him any longer. Frantically he put his hands to his face hoping to shield it from the onslaught of rubble and fire still falling like brimstone from all around him. His right hand came into view dark and bloody. The mangled remnant of his left blurred his vision with a stream of scalding hot blood in his eyes. Still, he was denied the closing of them.

Agony shatters his reality. He wants to cry out for his mother but his lungs are empty. He scarcely recalls her berating him for signing up. He wants to cry out that he is sorry, that she was right. He wants to hug her and hear her nag him over his pierced ear and tattoos again. She had cried when he left for boot camp, had cried when he came home and left again on leave. She cried… sobbed, when he proudly declared to her and his father that he was going to war. He had only glanced over her last letter, eaten the cookies she had sent and not responded. He had avoided her last phone call.

He wants to cover his eyes, his wounds, his shame. He wants to survive, wants to apologize to his mother, tell her she had been right to worry. Even if his body would have allowed his tortured mind to regain control, it would have been in vain. Too much skin was ruptured, flesh tore from bone and joint. Too many vessels are split open, more than what would allow for survival.

Moving by, a familiar face enters briefly into view, though he cannot recall his name. The red cross upon his helmet means that perhaps there is hope after all. A grimace, a shake of the head, and a look of helplessness. The medic bellows that he is sorry and the face disappears again.

The chill of fear becomes the frigid cold of certainty. His broken and dismembered body lay among others like him. Shattered and bleeding he feels the pain begin to subside. The physical pain at least. Blackness steals in like looking down a railroad tunnel. The roars and barks of war become a buzzing hum that sounds more like static than battle. Thrashing about to draw breath he silently howls for God.

He had never taken faith seriously before though he felt compelled in his fear to cry out now. He pleaded with Him that his mom would be spared the details of his horrible end. He begged in quiet agony for God to forgive him his bad choices.

Could a lifetime of indiscretion be forgiven in the last blink of life?

As everything faded, he was finally able to close his eyes. In the complete and utter darkness that followed, he painlessly saw another light.