STORY: An Island in Purple
A very short story, about an afterlife, or something else? Fantasy/science fiction. No disturbing content.
When Esmé was a kid she'd thought that all people died of old age when they hit one hundred years, never earlier or later. She must have known even then that you could die earlier, from illnesses or traffic accidents or in wars, but she'd never been afraid of that. She'd been lying in the darkness while everyone else in the apartment slept, thinking about how she was going to count down the days until she was a hundred years old, and how her family -all those who were still alive- were going to gather around the bed like they were going to celebrate her birthday. How old had she been, five? She hadn't been able to imagine a hundred-year-old woman, just a greyer version of herself.
*
When they took her into hospital again, she had understood that it was the last time. She couldn't remember whether there had been a definitive limit where she had looked into the darkness and realised that she had accepted it. It only got hard when Sackeus and Dymphna and her grandchildren came to her bed and said that she would probably get well. Those days she had to use more strength than she'd had as a healthy young woman. Sometimes she looked up at their faces and thought about how she would be able to cry as soon as they'd gone.
The pain was still there when she had conquered the emotions. The medication she got didn't soothe it any more. Perhaps they had started giving her higher doses. It was her liver that had failed. She got used to a chemical nausea and the taste of toxins on her tongue. It felt like it had even infiltrated her dreams. The fact that she was hurting might have been good. That would make it easier when it started.
She wasn't ready. The pain had got worse, until she tried to hit her head on the bed-frame to be able to pass out and fall asleep, but it had been as bad before and got better. She wasn't certain until the door clicked open and let in the doctor.
“Is it time?” she called, like when she'd gone into labour.
The darkness had overtaken her. She'd started blinking as if she could open her eyes out of a dream.
The doctor was holding a syringe. The fluid inside was clear, just a sparkling. Esmé got thirsty when she saw it, but she wasn't going to drink again.
“This is going to make it easier,” the doctor said.
She gripped Esmé's arm, so she didn't have to choose. Her skin was a dark speckled yellow that shouldn't exist in human skin. It was her now. Her run-down body only felt a tickling when the needle slid in. Her gaze went to the sky in the window. It was flat and white, but with a little wedge of blue cut off by the window-sill.
The pain vanished almost instantly. That must be the first sign that death was approaching. The fear was gone. It was the same blockade as being drunk: she knew what was going on, but it didn't reach her any more.
There was a moment of disorientation, as if from sleep. The nausea came back, but only briefly.
She was standing on a beach of pale sand. Where the sand ended, grass began, tufts of the kind of rough beach grass that reached to her knees and could slice up human skin. When had she last been able to walk, or seen grass? When she was a kid in Kämpinge she'd asked mum to carry her across the dunes down to the beach, because the grass was prickly. She walked across it, but she was an adult now and could take stings. When she looked down at her bare feet and ankles her skin was pale, without jaundice. She immediately raised her eyes, as if it were going to come back if she paid attention to it.
Groups of people were standing further off, or sitting on the lawn like university students on a sunny break. There was something slow about them; all conversations were calm and moderate. She stopped a bit outside their circle. Their clothes seemed childishly colourful, or was it because she had got used to the faded colours of the intensive care ward? Behind them, the land sunk again towards the surface of the water, and the slow glitter of sea stretched to the horizon. The still surface had a shade of purple that no body of water could have, except perhaps a few moments in the sunset and sunrise.
She wouldn't have noticed anything unusual if it had been a dream. Her mind shied away from that thought and what it might mean. Had the world flickered? It was just a moment's blurriness in all the outlines, not enough to show anything below the surface.
“Esmé?”
She looked up as a woman came towards her, her body chubby under a ruched green dress, her curls faded to a silvery yellow. It took a few moments before the name came to her, but it was Anna. It had been several years since Esmé had seen her -she hade been more of an acquaintance than a friend- but she seemed younger: not young, but agile. Her face had filled out until it didn't have any wrinkles except around the eyes.
Esmé had too many things to ask, so instead she reached for her hand. It felt real, its pads dry and smooth. She felt the warmth of something living.
“Anna,” she said. “Are you dead? Are we dead?”
Anna's gaze slipped down for a moment, as if she were concentrating on something else.
“No, I'm still in hospital,” she said. “Up in Härnösand. And I guess you're in a different hospital.”
She must have seen the confusion in Esmé's face, because she gave a laugh, a light little sniff that made her eyes glitter.
“Okay, what you want to ask first?” she went on.
Esmé gestured left and right with her head.
“Where are we? Is it... heaven?”
Her voice sounded more fragile than it should have. If there was a heaven, that meant there was also a hell.
Anna shook her head.
“No, this is the drug.”
Esmé looked around in the thin knot of people.
“I ought to have understood that it wasn't heaven,” she said. “Mother and father aren't here.”
“How did they die?” Anna asked after a second.
“Father in a plane accident. Mother from a heart attack.”
It no longer hurt to say it. Anna nodded a few times.
“Then neither of them got the injection.”
Esmé sat down, with no more difficulty than if she'd been a teenager, and put her arms around her knees. The grass and the sandy soil underneath felt authentic.
“So we haven't died yet?” she asked.
From the corner of her eye she sensed the movement when Anna nodded.
“We are about to die, but it takes time. You're not going to panic, are you?”
Esmé shook her head. Her hair swept in front of her face. It was black and shiny again.
“No, of course not. There's nothing to it but to wait here instead of in the hospital ward, I guess.”
It was strange that she could say it in a firm voice. She got to her feet and walked up to the water's edge. Their reflections were slow, like in oil. She could see two reflections, but when she looked up, Anna was gone.
She walked out from the shore and let the cool violet water lap up against her ankles.
THE END
When Esmé was a kid she'd thought that all people died of old age when they hit one hundred years, never earlier or later. She must have known even then that you could die earlier, from illnesses or traffic accidents or in wars, but she'd never been afraid of that. She'd been lying in the darkness while everyone else in the apartment slept, thinking about how she was going to count down the days until she was a hundred years old, and how her family -all those who were still alive- were going to gather around the bed like they were going to celebrate her birthday. How old had she been, five? She hadn't been able to imagine a hundred-year-old woman, just a greyer version of herself.
*
When they took her into hospital again, she had understood that it was the last time. She couldn't remember whether there had been a definitive limit where she had looked into the darkness and realised that she had accepted it. It only got hard when Sackeus and Dymphna and her grandchildren came to her bed and said that she would probably get well. Those days she had to use more strength than she'd had as a healthy young woman. Sometimes she looked up at their faces and thought about how she would be able to cry as soon as they'd gone.
The pain was still there when she had conquered the emotions. The medication she got didn't soothe it any more. Perhaps they had started giving her higher doses. It was her liver that had failed. She got used to a chemical nausea and the taste of toxins on her tongue. It felt like it had even infiltrated her dreams. The fact that she was hurting might have been good. That would make it easier when it started.
She wasn't ready. The pain had got worse, until she tried to hit her head on the bed-frame to be able to pass out and fall asleep, but it had been as bad before and got better. She wasn't certain until the door clicked open and let in the doctor.
“Is it time?” she called, like when she'd gone into labour.
The darkness had overtaken her. She'd started blinking as if she could open her eyes out of a dream.
The doctor was holding a syringe. The fluid inside was clear, just a sparkling. Esmé got thirsty when she saw it, but she wasn't going to drink again.
“This is going to make it easier,” the doctor said.
She gripped Esmé's arm, so she didn't have to choose. Her skin was a dark speckled yellow that shouldn't exist in human skin. It was her now. Her run-down body only felt a tickling when the needle slid in. Her gaze went to the sky in the window. It was flat and white, but with a little wedge of blue cut off by the window-sill.
The pain vanished almost instantly. That must be the first sign that death was approaching. The fear was gone. It was the same blockade as being drunk: she knew what was going on, but it didn't reach her any more.
There was a moment of disorientation, as if from sleep. The nausea came back, but only briefly.
She was standing on a beach of pale sand. Where the sand ended, grass began, tufts of the kind of rough beach grass that reached to her knees and could slice up human skin. When had she last been able to walk, or seen grass? When she was a kid in Kämpinge she'd asked mum to carry her across the dunes down to the beach, because the grass was prickly. She walked across it, but she was an adult now and could take stings. When she looked down at her bare feet and ankles her skin was pale, without jaundice. She immediately raised her eyes, as if it were going to come back if she paid attention to it.
Groups of people were standing further off, or sitting on the lawn like university students on a sunny break. There was something slow about them; all conversations were calm and moderate. She stopped a bit outside their circle. Their clothes seemed childishly colourful, or was it because she had got used to the faded colours of the intensive care ward? Behind them, the land sunk again towards the surface of the water, and the slow glitter of sea stretched to the horizon. The still surface had a shade of purple that no body of water could have, except perhaps a few moments in the sunset and sunrise.
She wouldn't have noticed anything unusual if it had been a dream. Her mind shied away from that thought and what it might mean. Had the world flickered? It was just a moment's blurriness in all the outlines, not enough to show anything below the surface.
“Esmé?”
She looked up as a woman came towards her, her body chubby under a ruched green dress, her curls faded to a silvery yellow. It took a few moments before the name came to her, but it was Anna. It had been several years since Esmé had seen her -she hade been more of an acquaintance than a friend- but she seemed younger: not young, but agile. Her face had filled out until it didn't have any wrinkles except around the eyes.
Esmé had too many things to ask, so instead she reached for her hand. It felt real, its pads dry and smooth. She felt the warmth of something living.
“Anna,” she said. “Are you dead? Are we dead?”
Anna's gaze slipped down for a moment, as if she were concentrating on something else.
“No, I'm still in hospital,” she said. “Up in Härnösand. And I guess you're in a different hospital.”
She must have seen the confusion in Esmé's face, because she gave a laugh, a light little sniff that made her eyes glitter.
“Okay, what you want to ask first?” she went on.
Esmé gestured left and right with her head.
“Where are we? Is it... heaven?”
Her voice sounded more fragile than it should have. If there was a heaven, that meant there was also a hell.
Anna shook her head.
“No, this is the drug.”
Esmé looked around in the thin knot of people.
“I ought to have understood that it wasn't heaven,” she said. “Mother and father aren't here.”
“How did they die?” Anna asked after a second.
“Father in a plane accident. Mother from a heart attack.”
It no longer hurt to say it. Anna nodded a few times.
“Then neither of them got the injection.”
Esmé sat down, with no more difficulty than if she'd been a teenager, and put her arms around her knees. The grass and the sandy soil underneath felt authentic.
“So we haven't died yet?” she asked.
From the corner of her eye she sensed the movement when Anna nodded.
“We are about to die, but it takes time. You're not going to panic, are you?”
Esmé shook her head. Her hair swept in front of her face. It was black and shiny again.
“No, of course not. There's nothing to it but to wait here instead of in the hospital ward, I guess.”
It was strange that she could say it in a firm voice. She got to her feet and walked up to the water's edge. Their reflections were slow, like in oil. She could see two reflections, but when she looked up, Anna was gone.
She walked out from the shore and let the cool violet water lap up against her ankles.
THE END