Greg Krojac
WTF?
Dedicated to Matthew and Dean from the Science Fiction Film Podcast whose review of John Landis’s comedy-horror movie ‘An American Werewolf In London’ inspired this story.
1
Arnold Leadbetter had known better days. In fact, all his previous days had been better than the one which he was about to experience. He had never had a worse day in his life.
He woke up to hear a couple of house sparrows greeting a brand new frosty morning. He smiled at the birds’ cheerful chirruping of joy at the realization that they had survived another cold night and that a fresh day beckoned.
Except, he didn’t smile.
His eyes felt really dry and he blinked to allow his tears to wash over them and give him relief from the discomfort that he was feeling.
Except, he didn’t blink. There were no comforting tears.
He couldn’t smile.
He couldn’t blink.
He couldn’t do anything.
He couldn’t move.
He looked straight up; he had no choice. He didn’t recognize the ceiling. Where was his lampshade? The floral one that he didn’t really like but had agreed to buy, as his wife had fallen in love with it at the store. In fact, where were the light-fitting and energy-saving bulb that the salesman had included in the purchase at no additional cost? Where was the light? There was supposed to be a light above his bed. There had always been a light above his bed.
Unless he wasn’t in his bed.
Come to that – where was Gillian? Where was his wife of fifteen years? She should be in bed alongside him or, at least, in the kitchen making their morning coffee.
He turned to the right, to see if she was there beside him.
Except he didn’t turn. He just kept looking up at the ceiling that wasn’t his ceiling.
His eyes were starting to burn. He needed to blink, he was desperate to blink. In his mind, he brought his eyelids together and anticipated the refreshing release of moisture. In reality, nothing happened. He wanted to scream, to shout out – the pain was excruciating – but not a sound emitted from his body.
Please, somebody, do something about my eyes!
Who did he think he was calling out to? As far as Arnold knew, he was the only person in the room, a room that he didn’t recognize. Perhaps Gillian was there. Perhaps not. He had no way of knowing. Was he alone? He hoped not.
A sudden thought crossed his mind.
Am I dead? Is this what being dead feels like?
He hoped he wasn’t dead. He’d only just passed his fortieth birthday. Forty was still young. Wasn’t it? He remembered that his grandfather had lived until the ripe old age of ninety-seven. His father was approaching seventy years of age but was as strong as an ox and twice as lively. The Leadbetters were made of strong stuff – no, he couldn’t be dead.
He heard a door open and close.
That wasn’t right. His bedroom door was on the left and that sound had come from the right. Their bedroom window was on the right. At least, it had been. Unless Gillian had rearranged the furniture whilst he’d been at work, and rotated the bed. That would explain the missing light. But, if that was the case, why hadn’t he noticed it when he’d gone to bed?
Hang on!
He remembered going to bed. He had definitely got into his own bed in his own bedroom. The light fitting and lampshade had been above his head when he’d drifted off to sleep. But now, everything was different. Everything was wrong.
Suddenly a strange face loomed into view. It was an attractive face – not beautiful, but a face that was pretty enough. But it wasn’t Gillian’s face. He didn’t know this face.
Artificial tears suddenly exploded into his eyes, first the left eye and then the right. The relief from the burning sensation was almost instantaneous. He tried to smile at the eyes that peered into his.
“That should help a little, Mr Leadbetter. It must be uncomfortable, your eyes being open all the time like that.”
Arnold thought he nodded his head but his head stayed still, exactly as it had done for the last three weeks.
Thank you, but who are you?
The nurse ignored him and fluffed his pillow a little.
“There. That’s better. Nothing worse than a pillow that loses its shape during the night.”
Based on his current circumstances, Arnold wanted to assure her that there were a lot of things a lot worse than a flattened pillow but said nothing, partly through politeness and partly through a complete inability to speak.
The face disappeared from view and he heard the door open and close again.
About thirty minutes later (it may have been thirty minutes, but it could have been any length of time – Arnold had no way of knowing) the door opened once more. This time he could hear three distinct voices. He recognized two of them, but the owner of the third – a male voice with an American accent – was a complete mystery to him. The voices became slightly louder as they approached his bed. He concentrated on hearing what the voices were saying – perhaps they’d throw some light on his current predicament.
“So, there’s really no hope for him?”
That was Gillian’s voice. It was wonderful to hear her voice – even though it sounded upset – but he didn’t like the sound of what she had just said. The stranger’s voice responded to her question.
“I’m sorry but, barring a miracle, I’m afraid your husband will never improve. Even if he did come out of this coma, he’d have suffered irreparable brain damage. He’d never be able to do anything for himself again. His quality of life would be virtually nil.”
A third voice entered the conversation.
“Mum. It’s only the machine that’s keeping him alive. Without that, we’d already have lost him.”
That was the voice of his twelve-year-old daughter, Keira. What she said explained the constant humming and pumping noise that he had heard since he had woken up. That, and the presence of the nurse who had administered the artificial tears, meant that he must be in a hospital.
Gillian turned to her daughter and clasped her hands in her own.
“But Dad’s only forty, Keira. I’m only thirty-eight. We’ve got our whole lives ahead of us.”
Arnold’s eyes tried to widen as he realised the ramifications of the conversation.
No. Please don’t do what I think you’re considering. I’m here. I’m alive. I’m not dead. I’m not dying.
The doctor contradicted the unspoken thoughts of his vegetative patient.
“I’m sorry, Mrs Leadbetter, Miss Leadbetter. Mr Leadbetter has contracted a particularly sudden and rampant form of ALS, amyotrophic lateral sclerosis, – or, as you say on this side of the pond, Motor Neurone Disease. It has affected not only his voluntary muscle movement but also his involuntary muscle movement such as breathing. Typically ALS presents a gradual deterioration, a degeneration, and death of motor neurons, but this form took hold in a matter of hours. Mr Leadbetter is completely paralysed. His entire body is unable to function autonomously. We’ve tried all the treatments that we can think of – and even some that are, quite frankly, experimental – and not one has shown even the slightest hint of helping to alleviate or reverse his condition.”
The doctor looked over at his patient, who heard every word but could say nothing to change the physician’s prognosis.
“We can’t even close his eyes. The best we can do is to hydrate his eyes at regular intervals. Without that hydration, he would be in incredible pain. That is, if he can still feel physical sensations.”
Of course I can feel. My eyes were killing me until that nurse put drops in my eyes.