Second Creative Writing Challenge Task #6: Death's Door

Task 6 of the writing challenge by @steemfluencer was to complete a story.

I altered the original slightly so that it would fit better with my plan for the outcome. Hope you enjoy!

Facts:

03.08 p.m. August 15, 2015** Edward Hospital, Naperville IL**

Roger is speaking with his butler Charles.

Death's Door

“Excuse me Charles, could you briefly explain me why I'm now laying on a bed in this hospital?” asked Roger, his eyes still droopy and threatening to pull him back to sleep.

“Yes, sir,” replied Charles, looking down at his hands. “I would love to. However, I couldn't really promise that it will be a brief story.”

“We have enough time,” croaked Roger, his throat parched and scratchy, “Please, go ahead.”

“Very well, sir. You know our neighbors, correct?”

Roger looked slightly puzzled, “Mr Adam and his wife. The strange ones?”

“Exactly sir. You know that they keep odd hours, sometimes leaving rather suddenly and arriving home a few hours later? Well, now I know why…”

———————————————————————————————————————

Charles shakes his head, “Wait, I need to back up, start from the beginning.” He clears his throat and fumbles nervously with something in his hands. It looks like a small black book.

He takes a deep breath and exhales while speaking, “You recall taking the Maserati out for a spin last night?”

Roger blinks a few times looking up at the ceiling, trying to recollect the event. “Ah…yes…I had just gotten off the phone with Amy…she was asking for more money again…as if the million she got in the divorce wasn’t enough!” Roger starts into a coughing fit, having gotten worked up over the conversation yet again.

When the coughing subsides, Roger settles back down and sighs. “So I gather I was in an accident? I honestly don’t recall anything after that. I just remember how angry I was.”

Charles nods, “Yes, sir. You were in an accident. Wrapped the Maserati around a tree, actually.”

“Ah well, I suppose the tree wants to sue me now, too?” Roger chuckles wryly. “Were there any other people involved?”

“No, sir. Luckily.” Charles avoided eye contact. This wasn’t the first time his boss had acted recklessly. He was born with a silver spoon in his mouth, and according to Roger, “There wasn’t anything that money couldn’t fix.” A slight grin reached at the corners of Charles’ mouth that he quickly suppressed, hoping Roger didn’t notice.

“So, what’s the prognosis? How long do I have to stay here?” Roger asked, clasping his fingers in his lap as if patiently waiting until he can go home. “Although I must say, I feel like hell itself came up out of the abyss and slapped me around like a red-headed step-child.”

Charles laughed at the insensitive remark, but not the usual ‘pandering-to-his-boss’s-poor-sense-of-humor’ kind of laugh, but slightly too high-pitched and loud. “Funny you should say that.”

Roger looked over at Charles curiously. “What do you mean by that?”

Charles looked Roger in the eye for the first time since his waking, “I mean you died, sir.” He paused and let that sink in. Despite his efforts to hide it, there was a tinge of…what was it -vindication? in his tone.

Brows furrowed in confusion, Roger began to take stock of himself, “Well, I do feel an excruciating pain in my lower left back.” He hesitated before probing for more information, “So…I died, huh? What was it, kidney failure?”

Charles shakes his head, “No, you’re not understanding, sir. You died. Declared DOA. Flatlined. Kicked the bucket. Worm food. Joined the choir invisible…” he muttered under his breath, “…well, maybe not that last one. Point is, the doc declared you dead, sir.”

“Oh…wow. OK, well, I guess I’m lucky to be alive, huh,” replied Roger, not really as a question, but something he seemed to be just getting grasp of, and speaking it out loud confirmed it for himself. He could have died. Him! In the prime of his life! And then who would get all of his money? His kid probably, who was on the Amy-Witch’s side. Which means she would have gotten it all. He’d have to be more careful in the future, he resolved to himself.

Roger then realized that Charles was still rambling on about something and decided to tune in.

“…and you had signed that thing on your driver’s license saying you were an organ donor.”

“Wait…what??”

Charles cleared his throat nervously again, “When you renewed your license, you had checked the box saying you wanted to be an organ donor…upon your death.”

Roger froze and thought again about the excruciating pain in his lower left back. “No…” he whispered. “They didn’t!” he said a bit louder, rage building up and causing him to wince as he got a jolt of pain from the movement in his back.

“Turns out, that they gotta get the organs quickly, before the body’s had time to…ah…decompose,” said Charles softly, again looking down at the small black book in his hands, clutching it as if it contained the answers to this whole mess.

“And also turns out, there’s this law, you see. Once the…body…is turned over to be…harvested,” Charles said the term as if it were a foreign word to him, slowly and unaccustomed to sign it in this context, “you can’t obstruct the organ extractors, nor can you stop them mid-job.”

“Just….what are you saying?” whispered Roger, horrified by what he was hearing.

“It means—“ His words were interrupted by a loud knock at the door.

A muffled voice from behind the door said in professional tones, “You’re 5 minutes is up, Charles.”

“OK, OK!” Charles replied quickly, “Just one more second.” He looked back over at Roger, and held out to him the small black book in his hands, now somewhat bent at the wringing Charles gave it.

Roger suddenly recognized the book. His book. His checkbook.

“We don’t have much time. There’s nothing that anyone can do! I tried! I swear!” Charles’ words were coming in panicked gasps, then he hesitated before blurting out the rest, “Today is payday. Will you sign my paycheck?”

Charles thrust the checkbook, placing Roger’s fingers around the slender pen with shaky hands.

Roger, unbelieving at what was happening looked down at the checkbook which was already made out to Charles…for 1 million dollars.

This couldn’t be happening, Roger though. This must be some joke! He began to laugh, not wanting to be thought of as a fool for buying this.

“Sure! I’ll sign your paycheck!” As he finished scribbling his signature, the door to the hospital room swung open.

In stepped in his neighbor, Mr. Adam, wearing scrubs and surgical gloves and mask, quickly followed by his wife, also in scrubs and wheeling a stainless steel cart with a tray of gleaming, horrific instruments that Roger couldn’t even imagine what they were for.

“Times up!” Mr. Adam said cheerfully. He looked at Roger, “You know, this isn’t the first time this has happened. Quite common, actually. Mistakes are made, doctors are tired or lazy. You know how it is.”

His face turned more somber as his wife hands him what appears to be tongs with teeth and gazed down at Roger, “But we take our job very seriously.”

He bends over the prone form of Roger, who now realizes that this isn’t really a joke, or if it is, it’s being taken a bit too far.

Mr. Adam hesitates and turns back to Charles. “You may want to leave now. Things can get pretty messy.” He regards Roger again, his eyes glistening excitedly as a person who loves his job.

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