Campbell (standard:fantasy, 3589 words)
Author: Shanty	Added: Apr 22 2003	Views/Reads: 3207/2077	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
Campbell is dying. Come live with him for a time.

Campbell Gordon woke slowly. He did not at first open his eyes.  He knew
he shouldn't open them.  It would just confirm that he was not dead.  
Damn!  Why hadn't he gone on?  Why was he still here? 

He didn't move.  He knew if he did it would hurt.  He didn't need any
more pain, thank you.  He wanted the end of it.  Enough, already!  Let 
me go! 

As he said, “Let me go.” for the hundredth, maybe thousandth time, he
wondered how his god would treat him. He was an average fellow, lived 
in a small town, lead a very ordinary existence, had been a teacher, 
had sowed wild oats as a kid like most others, and had been good and 
bad and ordinary most of his life. His prayer was the same each 
morning.  “Dear God.  Whoever,  wherever you are.  Please accept me, a 
very ordinary sinner.”  Then he added a prayer from his youth that 
resonated loudly in his brain, “Dear God.  For as much as without thee, 
we are not able to please thee, mercifully grant that thy holy spirit 
may in all things direct and rule our hearts.  For your Son's sake.  
Amen.”  He felt a little like a shit, he admitted.  His faith was weak, 
but he was guarding his chances.  Besides, what could he do to please 
or displease now? 

Still he hadn't moved, but the urge to pee was overpowering.  Again he
debated.  Should he just relax and let it go?  What the hell?  They 
were here to clean up after him.  Why not?  But as had been the case 
now for the month he'd been there, he resisted.  He moved and it hurt, 
but he pushed on beyond the pain and pulled the bed covers off.  He 
pushed the button pinned to his pillow.  He knew they would be there 
immediately, and he appreciated it.  It was getting harder and harder. 

The orderly. George, was always good, helpful without intruding,  Cam
stood by the bed with his help and peed into the bottle.  “Well done, 
Sir.”  He said that every morning.  The relief was palatable.  The lad 
helped him back into bed.  “Breakfast in forty-five minutes, Sir.  How 
are you feeling today?” 

“Same as yesterday but worse.”  It was his standard reply. 

“Hold on.  I'm here.” 

“Thanks.” 

“Is it hurting?” 

“What?  Everything's hurting, you idiot!.  Go away, George.” 

Campbell lay there and closed his eyes.  Another day.  Just waiting for
the inevitable.  “ Oh, God!  Give me strength!”  He lay there in a half 
doze, waiting.  Waiting for nothing to happen.  That was a boring 
thought. 

The trouble was, the only other thing to think about, beyond the pain,
was the past, his life, his successes and his failures, his secrets, 
his betrayals, his accomplishments, his denials, his sins.  How he 
hated lying there.  For every success, there was a failure, and they 
seemed to be connected.  How he wished he was done with this life. 

He tried to roll over and it was hard.  The catheter in his wrist always
was in the way and jabbed him when he moved.  He hurt.  He was so 
pissed off!  “God.  Give me strength.” 

Again the memories returned.  There was Joanie, his first love, the
first who at sixteen liked him so much she let him touch her, holding 
her close so he could feel her body against his.  Ah.  Where was she 
now? Would she greet him on the other side? 

Funny how memories are.  There was Johnny, a kid he played with every
day, was in the same grade, until his own parents moved, and moved him, 
to another city.  They never saw each other again. Why hadn't their 
parents stayed in touch? They'd visited back and forth.  Why hadn't he 
made an effort?  He didn't know but it was too late. 

There was Elizabeth who'd lived across the back lane.  He wondered
whether she would have remembered a cool Saturday afternoon when, both 
six or seven, they had negotiated a ‘You show me and I'll show you.'  


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