Rest In Peace, Shamhuth

Flash Fiction: When the weight of the world incapacitates an individual

A sobbing hand reached out from under the frigid comforter, attempting to grasp the light that came through the earth caked slot he called a window. A golden-brown hue leached through. A shadow of a swallowtail flitted by the aperture, a sign of hope, for rain to clean the glass, so he could once again, see outside. But not one peel of thunder came across the horizon. No chance of rain. No hope of getting a glimpse of the outside world. Cut off from Eden. Only the dilapidated cell was he allowed to see.

He didn’t know what time of year it was; he never did. How could he know? Not being able to leave the bed, let alone the room. The lock on the door looked rusted through, at least from what he could see. “Might even be able to break it,” he thought. If only he could rise to the occasion. But see? That was the problem. He began to wiggle his toes. Or attempted too, anyway. First the big toe. “Come on, you bastard,” he thought. Concentrating on the toe, tongue sticking out down to the left, a bead of sweat appearing on his horizontal forehead. The rubbery fish smoke of an electrical fire escaping out of his ears. But try as he might, his big toe wouldn’t budge. So, he let himself fall deeper into the bed, the comforter wrapping itself even more tightly around him (causing blains on the back of his thighs to flare), his hand fell, hanging over the side of the coarse mattress. The scratchy mattress pressed firmly against his wrist, his leech-finger hovered over his name placard, Shamhuth. A name he could relate to the meaning of, but no longer wanted to associate himself with. Memories flitted around like fireflies in summer, one of which caught his attention.

Shamhuth remembered back to the evening before his apathetic incapacitation. He had come back from work—he was a maintenance worker at the local gypsum plant—laying down two grocery bags from Fred’s. A simple meal. Fettucine and Ragu alfredo. He put Samuel Barber’s Adagio for Strings on the record player. The haunting beauty of the piece wasn’t lost on him now. The soft start of the strings grew in intensity as he looked down at the salty water in the pot starting to boil. He grabbed a handful of the fettucine and placed it softly in the pot. The boiling water reduced the noodles to a limp congealed mass swirling ever so slightly at the bottom of the pot. The strings started to call out their longing for things since passed—loves nearly forgotten, decisions (good and bad), overreaching employers, and the passing faces at the bus station.

He dug a noodle out of the pot to assess if the pasta was ready, placing it in his hand. Steam rose from the noodle in thin coils. Dumping it into his mouth he felt that the pasta was ready. He brought the pot over to the sink where the colander was ready. The water poured out first, then came the pasta with a sickly flop. The steam emanating now in large columns towards the ceiling. Gripping the handles on the colander he dumped the noodles back in. He popped the lid on the jar of alfredo and poured it over the noodles, adding in a healthy dose of garlic and parmesan. Ladling it into a bowl, heading towards his couch, he lifted the arm of the turntable to again play Barber’s Adagio, he sat down, the fabric of his shirt folding uncomfortably behind him. Enjoying his alfredo, the garlic slightly burning his tongue, the parmesan cheese adding the right amount of saltiness and cream. It sat right on his palette.

This memory now gave him third degree burns to think about. He couldn’t remember the last time he ate. Or how he wasn’t already dead from his lack of sustenance. He felt much like the wilted plant in the corner of his room, with no sunlight, photosynthesis became impossible. And at this point, he dearly missed his work. He wanted to escape the leviathan (otherwise known as employment) so badly; now that he had his wish, going back to the bosom that nurtured him was his only recourse.

How did he get into this position, you may ask? Well, after decades of putting forth his best effort and pulling straps attached to boots; one day, he just laid down for the night as usual, and found when he awoke in the morning that he could no longer stand up. Muscles completely atrophied. It was like after all these years even the muscles said, “No more, we’ve had enough.” And so, he didn’t bother to try to shock himself to his feet, he just accepted that this was his reality now. With added vigor to move his toe. “Just once, please, just move once. I’d like to get out of this bed. Even just a twitch,” he thought, painful globules swirling around his brain. But alas, the toe still wouldn’t move. Tears pooled, watering his cheeks. Shamhuth looked around the room, the golden-brown hue retracting, as if disgusted with his being.

Over time, the room, as if it were decaying, started to droop more and more. The books laid upon the desk; the layers of dust that started to collect now looked like shale. Soon enough, mold was growing on the outside consuming the books, quenching its thirst on the contents within. The mold had started to make its way up his comforter too, and soon, it would consume him as well. In the dislimned light, the chair floated as dust motes that it now was. The musty, mothball smell of the room was nauseating but he couldn’t get up to do anything about it. Orderlies no longer came into his room on account of him telling them not to bother. A lonely broom with twisted bristles sat in the corner, the wooden handle smoldering.

Down the hall from his room, he thought he heard footsteps echoing, keys jangling at the end of a belt loop. “Help,” he said in a barely audible whisper. Mustering all the strength he could he croaked out, “Help.” The person—if it was in fact a person—must not have heard, the keys jangled down the hall, away from his door.

Shamhuth’s arthritic, deformed hand that rested against the itchy mattress squirmed towards the light again, as if it were a haft to grasp. Fingers coiling and uncoiling. Desiccated riverbeds flowing over palms. The light was starting to wrap around Shamhuth’s fingers. It felt like dust as it wriggled there. A silhouette of a swallowtail was in the aperture again; he longed to see the colors. He looked down at his big toe peeking out from under the comforter. “Concentrate, concentrate,” he thought. The toe first twitched left then right. Shamhuth couldn’t believe his eyes. He tried to move it again. It only twitched to the left this time. A peel of thunder off in the distance unsettled the dust. Then the dust began to lift; his eyes shut, drifting, drifting. An eburnean orb jumped from his lips, lifting higher and higher till it almost touched the ceiling.

A week later

That rain had finally come brother, as your spirit left your body. The cadaver named Shamhuth laid upon the bed, mold spreading up and over his cheeks into his mouth. Spores lingered in the sunlight that glinted through the freshly rain cleaned aperture. The bittersweet success you had before you left amounted to nothing, except a guilt-ridden conscience. For I was the one with the keys, now cleaning out your effects, the little family you had no longer cared about the state you were in. “Just let us know when he’s at the funeral home,” they had said over the phone. Taking off my royal blue hat and placing it over my heart, a moment of silence for the recently departed. Respect. “That’s what you were looking for, wasn’t it? Just one person to recognize your work. And not let it fall into a never-ending to-do list.” Here at the nursing home, we see you. Shamhuth, you’ve been here for fifteen years, not once did you ask for help; never wanting to believe in the paraplegia you suffered. Instead, you wanted to be left sequestered in your room to slowly rot away. The home respected your wishes. But now, as I clean out this room, seeing a cold blotchy hand reaching out towards something, I can’t help but think of your final moments of regret.

Photo by Dyu - Ha on Unsplash