Better Late Than Never
Category B: Highly Commended (2023) Monash Short Story Writing Competition
Author: Jehan Mutha
The scientist turns to me, shielding the body bags stacked beside the warehouse from my view. Spinning around, I walk away. A black-clad duo blocks my path, hands eagerly resting on pistols. I’m in too deep.
Shuffling through the door, fluorescent lights shine on a narrow hallway. A worker greets me at the door, offering a wheelchair. I gladly accept the help and continue on. Bare concrete floors melt into concave walls, surrounding us in an industrial cocoon. The wheels skid on the smooth surface, and I steady myself, hands reaching out, brushing against the sides. Immediately, my hands recoil, the tips of my fingers already numb.
“Everything inside this state-of-the-art centre is cooled to negative thirty-five degrees Celsius, and we keep the air temperature at roughly four degrees Celsius. The cold environment helps with the process,” the scientist mentions, breaking the eerie silence. “We’ll get you some warmer clothes while you wait.”
As the scientist continues on with her explanation, the confined hallway opens up into a medical waiting room. White linoleum matches the white ceilings, white lab coats disappearing beside white walls. Two patients wait like statues, and they hardly glance at me as I struggle getting out of the wheelchair. It is far too large, but that doesn’t matter now.
The greasy aroma of fast food cuts through the all-too-familiar scent of disinfectants, giving my migraine a reprieve. The man across from me tears into a fried chicken drumstick, and noticing me, offers the box of chips.
“You want one?” he asks, through mouthfuls. I hesitate, realising that Dr Arreza’s strict diet I followed for years, more devoutly than my mum followed the Bible, was of little consequence. If my last meal is a potato bathed in oil, and drowned in chicken salt, so be it.
“Thanks!” I say, grabbing a few. He hands me the box, and I sit back down. “What’s your name?”
“Ammar Sami,” he replies, downing a frozen Coke. “I’m intrigued to see if cryogenic freezing is successful in the future. I don’t have any partners, friends, family or pets, so nobody is going to miss me. I just want to see how humanity evolves from now. Do we find life on other planets? Does climate change kill us all? Will Elon Musk fight Mark Zuckerberg, you know? Big questions. Anyways, what about you?”
“Nic. I would be turning twenty in two days. Lost most of the mobility in my legs as a result of a suicide attempt. I’m just hoping my legs will be cured by the time I’m out of the cryogenic chamber. My family and friends were fine with it – they’re not planning on euthanasia like me, but they’ll probably get preserved as well.”
My pity spiel is cut short by the arrival of a nurse, clad in white, a clipboard nestled in the crook of his elbow. Glancing around the room, he approaches the other patient, a tall woman with dark, curly hair. Continuing to read, she stands, leaves the Sylvia Plath book on the chair and heads through the doors. Leaning back in my chair, my eyes try to make out the book’s title. A hand rests on my shoulder, and I am also called up. A quick scan around the room, a wave to Ammar and I am ushered into a small white room. A bed lies in the centre, medical equipment hanging over it like clothes on a line, always on the edge of falling. The lab tech is silent while I lie on the bed, eyes closed, anticipating the sharp pain of the injection.
I flinch as the metal pierces my skin, the lethal cocktail of drugs entering my bloodstream, finally delivering peace. My vision swims, the ceiling transforming into a snow-capped ocean. My breathing slows, shallow breaths escaping from my lungs. The lab tech melts into the machines, robots coming alive as my eyes flicker into darkness.
I wake with a start, and struggle to get oxygen into my lungs. Walls press into me, the biting cold rendering my fingers numb and useless. Blinking my eyes open, I am surrounded by glass, liquid nitrogen snaking up like ivy on a castle. My legs, bound together, have no sensation. Launching my fist at the wall, I scrape my knuckles, blood slowly bubbling out. The glass remains intact. I start to scream.
I glance over at a clock, the numbers mocking me from across the room. I should have died seven hours ago. A group rushes past me, business suits and ties in a hurry to leave. An empty chamber opposite me crashes down, and the people flee like pigeons spooked by a car. The building begins to shake as an earthquake takes hold. Voices rise as more things fall. Alarms ring, high-pitched and shrieking. Everyone can hear the alarm, but no one can hear me. I thrash against the glass, bonds snapping. The scientist who gave the tour runs through the carnage, stopping for a second. She stares at my face – my frantic eyes and open mouth. The roof falls through, plaster smashing through the back panel. I fall forward, teeth chipping as my jaw breaks. Her shoes slip through the door as my breathing finally stops. Death was a little late to the party.