Last Choice

Last Choice

Dawn came late at this time of year, long after most people were at work, but not Brian.  He walked down the hill to collect the morning papers, as he had done every day for the last two years.  His jacket was zipped right up to his neck and his scarf pulled up round his ears.  Even so, the cold reached its small fingers into his clothing and plucked any warmth he'd secreted away.  He could, of course, have had the papers delivered, but this way he could be outside, at least for a while.  The newsagent offered his usual platitudes.  Brian returned them, and then announced he was cancelling their order.  He set off back up the hill, taking the footbridge over the river.  By the time he was home again, a reluctant daylight revealed mist draping itself over trees and rooftops, its slender membrane pierced by the pines.  Summer was a very long way off.

Entering their small flat, the warmth stifled him.  Gagging, he pulled off his scarf and went to open a window.  He could see Julia, just as he had left her, sitting as if staring out the bay window.  He bent his tall frame over her and kissed her cheeks, still warm, blue veins showing through her pale thin skin.  He laid the papers on the table, next to the empty medicine bottle and a half-empty water glass.  On the radio was some religious thinker droning on about forgiveness.  He turned it off with a snap.  

A watery sun pushed its way through the mist, as if drawing back heavy curtains, to reveal a fine winter's day.  He pulled the wheelchair back a bit, brushed Julia’s thin hair, and plumped her cushions.  The doorbell broke the silence, announcing the weekly delivery of organics.  He told the courier he was cancelling from now on, and took the crate through to the kitchen.

He ate breakfast quickly, realising he had not much time left.  He thought about Julia, about when she would still swallow and how he'd had to make sure that the porridge was not too lumpy or hot, smiling at her Goldilocks joke.  He remembered the day and the date when he'd raised the spoon to her cracked lips but they had remained firmly shut.  His eyes moved to the writing desk in the corner.  It was covered in books and photographs, medicine bottles and flowers, the fragments of their life.  He picked up the picture of their grandson Benjamin, the only thing of value he had left.    

About ten o'clock the nurse arrived.  Brian showed her silently into the cramped sitting room.  She looked at the cacophony of unwashed plates and newspapers, and at Julia's head, sagging backwards above the back of the wheelchair.  She bent over her and then called the doctor.  She offered Brian a consoling hand.  He pulled sharply away, clutching a crumpled leaflet.  The nurse took it from him and read 'A Right to Die'.