Mark Fuller looked up into the sky and felt tears come into his eyes. It was obvious to him now that --. How could he have lived like --that? The sky was spread out in front of him, for him, hidden in plain sight all his life. It was beautiful, and he'd finally seen it. Maybe it was a bit late, but, no, at least he'd seen it.
The sun had not yet reached halfway to its zenith and even though he could see a few fluffy white clouds out of the corner of his eye, the sky above him was a deep blue. He remembered suddenly the color was called, cerulean. He smiled, just a little because it hurt to smile. His teeth were broken, maybe his jaw too. "Cerulean." The perfect word for that color. It was kind of a majestic word.
Why had he never noticed? In the 46 years he'd been, well alive wasn't the right word, considering everything. In existence, was a better term for the way he'd occupied his space here. That term didn't really adequately convey the effect of his life. Maybe this wasn't the best time to be going down memory lane. Then again.
A small shift in the wind brush against his cheek and then he saw some black, black smoke drift by in front of his view of that cerulean sky. The smoke was pretty high above him. He couldn't smell it, but he knew what a burning car smelled like, so he wasn't missing much.
Exactly how he'd come to have this view wasn’t clear, but he had an idea of what it meant. He could feel blades of grass on his ears. They kind of tickled, a little. He could remember leaving the restaurant after the meeting.
He tried to turn his head a little to see what was around him but stopped when an electric shock jolted through his jaw and sizzled in his teeth. That wasn't good.
He tried to move his hands and feet but he couldn't tell if they were there. OK, then. Mark tried to take a deep breath but only got halfway when a spasm caused him to cough and he saw red foam spray up in the air over his face. Ahhh! Like, Moby Dick. Enough of that, then.
He listened for the sound of cars and sirens but heard nothing but birds chirping and a far off train whistle. So, no cavalry.
There was a moment of panic when it became clear what was happening and then the trapped feeling passed and he blinked the specks of blood from his eyes. His left eye was lagging a bit behind the right and felt puffy. He thought of the boxer in the movie Rocky asking his manager Mick to "cut me, Mick" so he could see his opponent, and Mark almost laughed and thought better of it.
He didn't need to open his eyes to see his opponent. Things were becoming clear quickly.
Who would miss him? He came up with some names and faces, but those were people who took orders from him, who he paid to follow him around, who provided him with things to make his life more powerful. None of those people would miss him. They might miss his money and his -- no, that was it.
And who he would miss? Nobody came to mind. His mother was dead. Her name was Alice but he'd never heard her called that. Bert, his father only called her "wompie." Mark never knew what that word meant but his father meant it to be cruel and wounding. Mark thought that his father had made up the word because he couldn't think of anything worse to call her. Mark hated Bert because that was what Bert wanted from his son. Mark never asked why. He was a good son.
Bert wanted him to hate Alice too but he didn't hate his mother. He almost loved her. Wait, go back, this is your chance. He did love her. Would he see his mother again? Come on. This wasn't Movie of the Week, he sure wasn't going to suddenly see St. Peter or Clarence the Guardian Angel and be escorted into heaven now, not after the things he'd done, the way he'd treated people. This wasn't going to be a coin flip. But he could spare a moment to think of her, couldn't he? He wasn't too busy right now, was he? She was a good mother. Maybe weak, letting Bertram treat Mark like that, too meek, too frightened. Still, she loved Mark in her own way and never gave up hope for him. Mark just couldn't stand to see that hope crushed over and over by his father. God, it was Movie of the Week!
His father was in a nursing facility, at least his body was. He was as good as dead, better! Bert lived in a private hell of his own construction and Mark thought that was more than fair. Mark visited, once in a while, as a "normal" person would go to see a freak show, to look at some insane murderer on display and wonder how one becomes such an animal. The problem was that Mark understood Bert and that's why he held no hope for how his own ending would turn out. Mark knew he was one of the damned.
But he wouldn’t sing some sad song about never having had a chance. He did not dare to list the ways and reasons that he'd turned into a smaller, more efficient version of his venomous father. Preying on the poor and weak. Taking everything from people who had nothing but hope. He'd given orders to walk away from shipping containers full of real human beings after --. Another cough and another red plume.
"Thar she blows!" he thought. But this time the cough was weak and he could feel the liquid welling up in the back of his throat, he could hear the gurgle.
"There's something down there," he heard a man's voice in the distance.
At least he'd landed face up. He thought he should laugh now and squeezed his eyes shut to try to think of some words that would mean something to anyone who might be listening.
There was some noise to his right. Someone was coming.
He racked his memory for a prayer or something to say.
Mark looked up into the sky and saw the color drain from it. That was as close as he was going to get to heaven.
Everything was black as the people arrived at the spot where he lay, but he could still hear.
The last words he heard were in a woman's voice, in a whisper, as she stood next to him. "Oh God!"
His last thought was, "I wish I'd--"
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