The Hand of Death

Author’s Note: I wrote this creative story in response to chapter 4 of the novel, All Quiet on the Western Front, by Erich Remarque. I was intrigued by the earth theme portrayed throughout this chapter, and how we all come from the earth, but also eventually return to it. I also connected this idea back to the main them of adulthood because I believe that in order to truly be an adult, you must understand why it is necessary for you to die, and you mustn’t be afraid to die. I hope you like it!

My nose twitches back and forth, as the smell of death eradicates all other perfumes with its sinister, choking stench. I can no longer pinpoint where in this suddenly piercing sterile enclosure it diffuses; encompassing, suffocating, it strangles everyone, intertwining scent and memories it floats on eerily. Gasping for air, I notice my pulse quicken as my heart surges forward, nourished with adrenaline. My heart gallops alongside my mind, racing with images of cold carcasses and limp limbs. And then I see it – the fog of death reaching its hand out towards my neck, struggling to strain the last drop of life out of me.

And then I run.

I run, not because of nausea, not because of homesickness, but because I shudder at the sight of death, at the thought of it. I am a young woman, barely sixty-five years of age, and yet they drag me to this house of death – this heart hungry hospital. My days on this earth are not yet numbered – they can’t be; I am still in full bloom, my petals thrive and mature with every gulp of air I breathe and every lively step I take. I make it to the bus stop nearby, where I heave myself heartily onto the brawny bench. My heart relaxes as I release a warm mouthful of life-giving air in a generous sigh. I lean back onto the bench, and fixate my eyes on the sorry excuse for a garden a few feet away. A stump of an old tree is being invaded and infested with weeds of all kinds. At first I feel empathy for the old tree trunk, who, after losing his lovely life, is humiliated and harassed by these invasive beasts. But after my brow furrows and my eyes turn to slits, I realize that these so called weeds are really delicate flowers, using the shielding trunk as protection from other natural enemies. As I come upon this conclusion, I hear shouts of worry and relief behind my shoulder and immediately my thoughts veer in the completely opposite direction.

The nurses drag me back to the gloomy prison cell, assuring me that my stay will be much more enjoyable if I act the part of the compliant patient. I roll my eyes. They treat me as if I have regressed back to my immature toddler state, patiently asking if I would like a room with a window, or one near a bathroom. Without thinking, I immediately blurt out that I would enjoy a window room, if that wouldn’t be too much of a hassle. Why I would ask for a window room is unbeknownst to me, but I trudge down the whitewashed hall, perch upon my rickety-railed bed and stare longingly out the window. My eyes fall upon the guardian tree trunk with its frail, vibrantly colored children covering it with their lively leaves and pretty petals.

And then I fall.

And as I fall, I envision my grave – my own tree trunk – from which countless beings of life will sprout. Before my eyes close for the last time on earth, I gaze once more upon the garden. Effortlessly the trunk protects, effortlessly thrive the flowers, effortlessly surrenders my body. And then I see the hand of death reaching out towards me, not to strangle me, but to offer me a hand into the threshold of the earth.

Mimic Lines:

“One can no longer distinguish whence in this now quiet silvery landscape it comes; ghostly, invisible, it is everywhere, between heaven and earth it rolls on immeasurably” (63).

“Monotonously the lorries sway, monotonously come the calls, monotonously falls the rain” (74).