Thirteen Days of Dying
Every morning she rises, and I am afraid.
It has been seven days now—a whole week!—and things have not improved. But what can I expect? Just seven days ago she was so full of life; so radiant. But she is a woman of faith, and faith comes before all else. So I must accept—and continuously I try!—that things shall never better.
It began the morning of the Sunday previous; an unusual thing at first. She woke from a dream or vision (the latter she claims), so morbid in nature, from the graces of God himself. A tragic accident; a terminal crash. The Good Lord was to prevent her from passing, she said. So she vowed never again to take to the streets—to remain on foot among the house and the garden—and her vow she will keep.
On Monday came another vision. A tragedy! A fall in the garden; a fatal gash from a rake. So her vow kept her within the house and the yard.
Tuesday’s vision was quite unsettling, though I grow ever so immune to the gloom. A tile falls from the roof, taking her down from the head. Piety! Never again will she leave the house.
The house is large and allows her plenty of room; passed to her by generations of devout splendor. Oh God—allow her at least the house! Wednesday morning, another vision. A tumble down the stairs. One-half of the house, abolished by devotion.
We then cleared a downstairs guest-room to accommodate her wishes. The entirety of her bedroom was recreated, save a vanity she no longer needed. Within this room and the kitchen she remained on Wednesday; how I’d hoped interacting with the housekeeper would do her well. But Thursday morning, she awoke—Heaven help. A fall in the kitchen. Another side of the house eliminated.
It has become routine for me now. Friday’s vision was a slip in the bathtub, and Saturday’s a rock through the open window. The fresh air was the only cure I’d hoped for.
Now it is Sunday again. She remains confined to her bedroom; windows sealed and curtains drawn. We have informed Father Rackham of her condition; he shall arrive this afternoon to console her.
I hear her crying out now—she must be awake.
Father Rackham is in the room with her now. She has disclosed to him all of her visions, including today’s—electrocution by bedside lamp. The room must now remain dark. I fear his efforts will conclude in vain.
She cries out; who is he to know her visions are not divine warnings?
He tells her he is a man of God.
But a man of God is still a mere man. She speaks now in nothing but restless shouts.
Let us pray together, he says.
She will not hear of it. No man with such little faith is any position to exalt himself.
He asks the Good Lord to bring her peace.
I grow ever so restless now. Sleep continues to escape me for fear of what awaits when I wake. We can only hope the Father’s visit was not in vain—oh God! What then?
We have all tried to discuss the matter with her; of course she had little regard for our sentiments. The Father was our last hope! What if matters worsen indefinitely?
She has yet to leave her bedroom since Friday. Breakfast and dinner are delivered to her, and none of us allowed in her quarters a moment longer than it takes to bring them. Her faith domineers us all! She paid no mind to the words of the Father—a man of God! Her only devotion remains to her visions—piety!
I hear her crying out now—how long have I been awake! I pray for an end to this hardship.
The greatest of fears has materialized. Another vision—so dooming. She choked on her breakfast. Solid food is no longer to be delivered.
I tell her soup and water is a meagre diet for a woman of her age! But it is to be so. And what can I do?
This day—Monday, is it?—will be the lengthiest since this began. Each day is a bit longer than the day previous, as with it devoutness takes her further from what she was. One week ago she was roaming the house! What a thought! How only a week has passed I am unaware—when reclusion furthers by the day the weeks feel months. I grow ever so weary with apprehension. When shall this come to an end—how?
It is Tuesday now, the tenth day—I count the days in numbers of deaths. Her voice has begun to weaken from the endless crying; she speaks rarely to anyone now but wails a great deal of the time. She wept continuously today upon realizing she no longer was able to eat; her vision involved arsenic in the soup. She must now survive on water and tea!
She no longer trusts any of us—how dreadful! How could she believe we would lace the soup with arsenic? But her faith has protected her thus far, and must remain her only outlet for reliance.
It is now day eleven—the madness will never end! I cannot bear to face today’s vision! Two men break in to her bedroom and strangle her—now the door must remain locked! No one is to enter! She will not eat, so no one has any reason to enter, she says. Dear God! Surely this will end soon—we all pray. We spend the entirety of our days praying.
We tried to call a doctor, but she would not have it. If she would not take the word of a priest, then surely not that a doctor. What can we do? What can be done?
I hear her crying now. The darkness must be frightening—the lack of food must also be unsettling. It is unsettling for me to imagine.
I’m alive! she cries. No one will hurt me!
Now it is the twelfth day—it is evening, but I had no heart to write this morning when she woke. It has not stopped raining since last night. Poor dear—storms always frightened her. But at least the storm cannot harm her; locked in her bedroom with sealed windows.
I can hear her wailing from here. Imagine—now she is no longer to sleep! Her vision involved her passing in the night! I think she is yelling to keep awake.
When will it end?
The storm is getting louder now. It is hard to hear her calling.
I pray for peace.
Good heavens! The screaming!
I have awoken to a crying far unlike the one I’ve grown accustomed to. It is far louder than the storm!
We are now rushing to her bedroom—the screaming is unbearable. Help me! Help!
The door is locked!
Kicking and pushing on the door now—God help us!
The screaming has stopped. The storm has stopped. The room is silent now and we have broken down the door.
Her face is frozen in fright but her body is limp—draped peacefully over the bedside.
I run to her side—the horror! A heart attack?
I am crying now. What can be done?
Could the Good Lord be as cruel as superstition!