"Last Rites"
6/3/2012
Watching the clouds drift lazily across the bit of sky he could see through the window at the other end of his hospital room, Anthony DeMartino laughed. All the years he had spent in high-stress situations-Viet Nam, then working as an accountant during the stock market crash in the 80's, and finally, as a high school history teacher for the past thirty years-and did the stress finally get him? Did he crack like a walnut under a sledgehammer and wind up in the Funny Farm, spending his final moments chewing on his arms and screaming about robotic chickens?
No.
Instead, his heart and lungs had joined forces to bring him down. Heart failure, lung cancer, and a bad attitude. That was what he was leaving this world with.
Anthony laughed, ending in a hack that wracked his thin frame.
At least he was dying like a man.
An intense pain gripped his chest, and he twisted his face, jaw clenched, as he waited for the pain to pass. It did indeed subside, but the pain remained even as minutes passed away.
"Hell of a way to go," Anthony wheezed, dark humor lingering around the corners of his grimace. Just then, the door opened and a man dressed in black walked in. Anthony turned his head slightly, and the priest came fully into view.
He had light brown hair brushed back from his face, small, nervous-looking eyes and a book clutched to his chest. A rosary dangled from between the pages on a string of polished wooden beads.
"Well, well," Anthony gasped, grinning past the pain. "Time for my last rights, is it Father?"
Father Timothy O'Neill paced timidly into the room and sat on the small stool at Anthony's bedside.
"If you're ready." He hesitated at calling the man 'my son.' He thought perhaps Anthony might take offense.
Anthony laughed, coughing heavily. He no longer cared to cover his mouth, and small drops of blood flew from his lips to dot the sheet covering his body.
"Padre," he gasped, laughter lighting his faded eyes so that the blue lightened from the color of faded denim to the bright, vibrant blue of ocean waves. "Don't waste your breath. If there [i]is[/i] a hell, I'll be there within the hour."
"Oh, no!" Father O'Neill's eyes widened in alarm and he held a hand to his collar in shock. "We believe that every soul can be saved. It's not too late to repent!"
Anthony turned a shrewd eye on the religious, smile thin as a razor cut.
"Repent? You think my soul can be cleaned that easily?"
O'Neill's expression was stern and certain. "Of course I do."
The dying man's face cracked into a wolf's grin as he said, "How about yours, father?"
The priest's eyes flew wide in shock as a surprisingly strong hand grasped his collar and pulled him down into a rough, savage kiss. It tasted of sour blood and bad breath, and as Anthony's tongue rammed between his lips and teased his own, Father O'Neill thought he tasted damnation.
Their lips parted gently. Dazed, O'Neill looked down at the man he had come to save and found the man's eyes had closed. His hand fell heavily to the bedside with a sense of finality.
Throat suddenly thick, the priest made the sign of the cross, laid a pair of pennies on Anthony DeMartiino's eyes, and said a prayer.
The sun set as the hospital door clicked closed with his exit.
Viva la crack. Booya.