Last Minutes of Otto
(Author's note, this is more of writing project than an actual story.)
He gave out a dull laugh as if in the throughs of an opium sleep. His head fell forward and hung there like a reaching vine. Otto’s skin had grown pale yellow while his thoughts had long turned to the days when he was a school boy deep in the wild where he smoked cigarettes and joints often feeling that we was in charge of keeping the forest in its natural state.
From down the hall a television echoed its bad news, from room to room. A four-alarm fire burned in an apartment building somewhere in the Bronx or was it two planes crashing into a couple of buildings, he couldn’t tell. He couldn’t even tell what day it was or make out the conversations coming from the other side of the door. He was not sure if he was still alive for that matter.
In his dreams which came from the pills to help him keep the day on the other side of his eyelids, he heard a woman’s voice. It wasn’t his mother. It had been too long since he heard her speak. He forgot her voice, and her touch. Nor was it from an old girlfriend, it lacked all warmth or humanity. It was the voice of a working phone operator. “You’re moving too fast Otto. There is no escape from the bad news coming from your radio, it’s always waiting for you on the other side of the door.
The forest had become white as if some unseen storm had lifted the pigment from the world, along with its noise and static. There was no rumour of birds or wild beasts or even Otto’s breathing though he could feel his heart racing faster and faster and faster. The voice spoke once more this time from somewhere among the bare trees,
“You never should have taken things too far.”
“And the band played on,” was his only retort, not knowing what any of this meant. He was wondering if there was any meaning to this silent world where he was still young and free from the confines of the sterile smell of disinfectants which had been haunting his nose since he was committed to the ward. He once learned that dreams make for bad cinema, where is the connection to the meaning or vision of the director? Its fine for thirty minutes in dada madness, but not for a life time.
The door to his room opened and his chair started moving with its wheels squeaking as if in protest. The two nurses who had wandered in, one of them with a deep black southern accent, spoke and laughed about something Otto could not make out. Then they stopped and the one with the twang in his voice turned his attention to Otto,
“How are you today Mr. Berger? You are looking good. Looking stronger.”
Otto let out another dull laugh, “and the band played on” was all he could utter. He felt his body being lifted then slowly lowered onto into the safety of his bed. He felt the straps tightening around his wrists and ankles. The two men then disappeared, out the door. Even though he couldn’t open his eyes, Otto could tell it was day time. He could feel the warmth of the sun which shown through the windows, on his face and chest. The air in the room was stale and weighted like that of a mausoleum. When he was sure he was alone he whispered, “and the band played on.” The television from down the hall still blared, “and now sports.”
Otto ran deeper into the wilderness where even morning dares not reach.
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