A LONGER LIFE

Emory woke up with a distinctly hollow feeling. It wasn’t really in a specific

part of his body; he just felt empty. He moved fluidly through his morning routine –
clothes, backpack, leaving – with monotonous clarity. As he gently closed the door
on his way out, he realized, as he had every morning of late, that routine and lack of
surprises or interest in nearly anything offered no reprieve from the people and
feelings outside of the rut he had worn himself into.
As Emory crossed the football field, high school in sight, the dreary sky
started to drizzle. Tiny, wet droplets pelted his black hair and overcoat. They tapped
on the roof of the equipment shed, pattering out a beat, sounding like a steel drum.
The sodden grass easily succumbed beneath his feet, slowly sinking into the
ground. Emory walked, leaden, across the field, head cast low in thought. He
contemplated silently the small, yet intriguing things, like how the clouds looked as
they rolled across the mottled sky.
The sun hadn’t yet risen, so everything was still gray, including Emory. This
was his favorite time of the day, when everything was tinged by gray and black.
Everything wasn’t so complex and hard to deal with when there was no color in the
world. So simple. The world with everyone and everything colorful in it moved too
fast. He liked to take it slow and feel like he appreciated life to its full extent. And
when he died, he could feel as if he was wiser and had had more experiences than
the people who would be able to outlive him, and yet took for granted the time they
had.
Emory was over halfway across the field, but it felt like it had taken him hours
to get there. That pleased him, to a degree. He had thought about so much in that
short time; he had visualized the trench of routine, observed the clouds, and
acknowledged his favorite time of day yet again, along with countless other
thoughts that had been running through his mind. He smiled wearily to himself, a
smile that appeared almost guilty on his sad face, as if it shouldn’t be there. The
smile rearranged the gentle creases on his face, and suddenly everything felt out of
place. A few seconds before, Emory had been connected and in syncopation with
everything, and he had felt content. But with the appearance of the smile came a
sense of wrongness. The clouds were no longer peaceful. They hovered ominously
overhead, darkening. The grass wasn’t dark gray anymore. It was turning a deep
forest green…. The colors were coming back. Pangs of a familiar, yet indescribable
feeling struck him in an uncomfortable place: his heart. His stomach churned with
frustration. His fake, ridiculously hospitable black and white world was starting to
regain its color, and everything was real again.
All of a sudden, his ideas, plans, and efforts seemed so futile and false. Had
he really thought that being thoughtful and not wasting time would prolong his life?
Tears burned Emory’s eyes as he approached the school, walking faster. That was
why the smile had felt so out of place. There had been a flicker of hope still burning
inside of him, and he didn’t deserve to smile if he had actually believed that there
was any hope left for him.
Emory had reached the school, but he now assumed it was pointless for him
to have come. He slammed his fists against the brick wall and dropped to his knees.
A horrible, pitiful scream threatened to jump out of his throat. Bolts of pain shot up
his kneecaps as he collapsed. Bitter, dry sobs were choked out of him, and his tears
mixed with the rain and spattered the cold cement below him. Kneeling, he shivered
and closed his eyes. Then, in desperation and determination, he dragged himself to
his feet and staggered towards the door that led to the back of the stage. The air
inside was warm and clean. He drew a shaky breath, shutting his eyes and leaning
against the wall. Tears still coursed down his pale cheeks, dripping off his chin. He
inhaled again, concentrating. “Get it together,” he whispered in the dark, hating his
weakness. “Get it together. Get it together.” He sniffled and mopped his eyes with
his sleeve, repeating the phrase over and over again to himself. It worked, and his
tears slowly ebbed.
Emory pulled back the cuff of his coat, revealing a black digital watch with a
neon orange screen that glowed in the darkness. He squinted at it. 7:14. Although
he remained motionless and expressionless, he was pleased that classes didn’t start
for another 46 minutes. Trembling, he walked slowly, hand trailing along the wall.
When his fingers brushed against the light switches he flicked the first one on. A few
of the stage’s lights dimly stirred to life, illuminating part of the front of the stage.
He sighed collectively and ambled unhurriedly to the back of the stage. There in the
dark, hidden by shadows, stood a magnificent grand piano. He approached it with a
look of fondness, familiarity, and reverence. His icy blue eyes slowly melted as he
ran his hands over the smooth, varnished cherry finish. He silently sat down on the
leather-covered bench. Underneath the black leather was the same cherry wood as
the piano itself. Emory’s long, slender fingers leisurely caressed the ebony and ivory
keys. They were so colorless. It was extremely relieving. If the keys on his piano
turned colorful like the rest of the world eventually did, he didn’t know what he
would do.
As he stared at the keys in silence, he wondered what he should play. His
mind immediately sprang to “Last Days,” his own composition. He sat erect and set
his hands in the starting position. Suddenly, there was a twinge of pain in his left
hand. Lifting it, he realized it was extremely stiff. He sighed as a wave of sadness
overcame him. His lip quivered and threatened to start him crying again. How many
chances would he have to play his song before he died?
Emory tried to stretch his hand across as many keys as possible, but could
barely span an octave, unlike before. He was afraid to strain it too much, though,
remembering his previous pain. Two weeks prior, Emory had been playing piano
when he developed severe dystonia in his left hand. It had been the most horrible
experience of his life. He shuddered as he remembered the excruciating pain, and
watching his fingers contort into unnatural shapes. Initially he hadn’t realized what
was happening, but he had only been able to watch his joints bend backwards for a
few seconds before the pain totally overtook him and he collapsed, screaming in
fear and pain.
He had been rushed to the hospital in an ambulance. He remembered his dad
sitting next to him and holding his hand, and he had felt happy because it was the
first time his dad had really acknowledged him since his mother had died. Once
they arrived, the first non-protocol test they did was a genetic one. This had struck
him as odd, but his father seemed as if he had been expecting it, so Emory had
accepted it. Emory recalled the evening a few days later when they had been sitting
at the table in their apartment, drinking coffee in the evening as equals, rather than
father and son. His father had calmly set down his mug of coffee and his newspaper.
Straight out, he had said, “Emory, you have Huntington’s.”
At first, Emory hadn’t reacted at all. Not knowing what it was, he slowly took
another sip of his bitter black coffee and blinked expectantly.
Emory’s father stared at the table and intertwined his fingers. “Do you know
how your mother died?” he asked. He continued before Emory had a chance to
respond. “She had what you have now. The genetic marker test – that was to test
for Huntington’s.”
Uneasiness had risen in Emory’s stomach as his father explained Juvenile
Huntington’s Disease. He told Emory about the neurodegenerative disease that
would slowly take over his body and give him symptoms like dystonia, chorea,
seizures, loss of cognition skills, decline in mental function, and loss of peripheral
vision. JHD, he discovered, would progress faster and kill him much sooner than
regular Huntington’s would, but not before rendering him totally insane and without
control over his own body.
The father looked at his son with hard, icy eyes and said, “You’re going to die.
You won’t make it to forty.”
Emory was numb with shock. All of it seemed like a terrible dream until his
father repeated, “You’re going to die.”
Shaking, Emory stood up and, even though countless conflicted emotions
were beguiling him, he managed to keep a steady voice and say what he knew
needed to be said. “I’m not a child, Dad,” he replied, faltering slightly. “I knew I was
going to die. Everyone dies. I just…didn’t think I’d be dying this soon.” He then
dropped his head a bit so that he didn’t have to see the unconcerned, rock-hard
look on his father’s face. Hand shaking, he picked up his coffee and walked out of
the room.
Lost in his memories, Emory slowly started playing the intro to “Last Days,”
the song he had written the night he had been informed of his disease. He was
cautious not to stretch his left hand too much. The expression on his face was
pained, and the hollow feeling inside of him had magnified itself. But now that he
had started playing, warmth spread through him with every note he hit. The chords
resonated through the room, and his music was the only thing he could or wanted to
hear.
Emory abruptly dropped his hands, right in the middle of the introduction.
Fascinated, he listened to the eerie echoes that filled the silence. Then, there was
nothing. The stillness of everything sent shivers up his spine.
As he picked up where he left off, the intricately woven melody filled the
emptiness again, occupying even the darkest corners of his soul.