Death Sentence

It’s early evening when you finally get home. You look at the place where your rear view mirror used to be and wonder whether you should get it fixed soon. After all, you’ve managed fine until now with only one kidney; why should this be any different?

Eventually you decide to tape an old hand mirror over the leftover bits of glass. You seem to recall that it once belonged to someone you knew, but the memory is vague. The handle has long since broken, its remains now hidden by a frame of red duct tape. The mirror is scratched and smeared. 

You wonder what would happen if your negligence were to cause an accident, but you abandon the thought when you realise that the other person would probably be the only survivor.  You remember the last time you were in hospital, the disbelief on the doctor’s face when he increased your dosage of his miracle cure and realised that your body still refused to heal. It’s strange, being immune to immortality.

Vex is waiting for you when you enter the house. She rubs her head against your leg and you bend down to stroke her grey fur. Even after all these years you still haven’t figured out everything about her. Sometimes you enter a room to find her lying on her side and kneading at the air with her claws, as if she is manipulating some unknown power. It comforts you to know that there are things about Vex that will forever remain a mystery. You like the fact that she will die before you. You wonder if that’s selfish. 

Later, you read an email for your great grandmother. Apparently, over a hundred years of living has utterly exhausted her, and she will soon be taking temporary death leave. Of course, she hopes that you won’t be lonely without her occasional visits. She promises that the machines will wake her up in about twenty years’ time (‘unless I oversleep, my dear’).

You close your laptop and head down to the basement. Vex does not follow. The stench has gotten much worse since the last time, after all.  The girl is lying in the centre of room. Her body has been hollowed out, and her organs pulsate in a pile next to her as if they are some new kind of creature. Hearing your footsteps, she sits up. You’ve often told her to do this at home, but she seems to like having an audience. You don’t even know her name. One day she simply appeared at your doorstep with her intestines peeking out from beneath her shirt.

You can’t blame her for trying this. Many of the children do when they find out that they will have to live in the same place, doing the same job allocated to them forever, like batteries that will never run out. The world is too full for choices. 

One day you know that you will have to send her away before she makes a bigger mess, but a part of you is fascinated by her. The way she dismantles and rearranges herself tells you all you need to know about the world that you can never be a part of. After all, you’re the only person on earth who’s free to die.

About the Author

Aaliyah Cassim is a twenty year old South African university student who writes both short fiction and poetry.