Assessment of Capacity

Flash Fiction

It wasn’t the thought itself that bothered Peter—it was its viscosity. Or, rather, the sticky feeling it provoked. The idea of unplugging himself from the respirator was simple enough. Click. Done. But who was going to do it?

“Twister, torrent, tornado, tsunami, typhoon,” he thought in rapid succession, blinking after each word. What would the five blinks mean to an onlooker? As far as the world was concerned, one blink meant yes, two meant no. But five? There was no need even for three. Maybe for a maybe. But a maybe had never come up.

Peter was astonished by how easy it had been to put his life’s affairs in order with just one or two blinks. Fifty-eight years wrapped up in one three-hour session. A psychiatrist had read him a bunch of questions. Blink this. Blink-blink that. Done. Peter passed the assessment of mental capacity with ease. Hence, he could still call the shots. So, he did.

“Do you wish to be taken off life-support?”

One blink.

But who was going to unplug him? That’s when the stickiness began to ooze. He had no family. None to speak of. There was a son, somewhere, but Peter blink-lied about having any children. And about being married. It was irrelevant. It had been for the last twenty years. He was all too aware of it now.

Hospitals, it turns out, are great places to reach a heightened state of awareness. It would be all very useful if he could walk out with that clarity now. But there was no walking out for Peter anymore. Not even rolling out. His position was fixed. And that lucidity in his mind was frustrating.

Had he ever had this kind of clarity before, things might’ve worked out differently. It wouldn’t be foggy anymore. Or, at least, less foggy. Misty, perhaps. He could’ve dealt with misty. But hadn’t it all started with a mist? The dew of a doubt set in first, long before the fog billowed in. He embraced the first drops of unease as a passing phase. By the time everything thickened into a haze, he was too far gone. He was already falling toward the shroud of indigo water from that red bridge called Golden.

They had told him the fall took less than four seconds. Peter remembered the regret kicking in at second one.

Who was it going to be?

A nurse? A doctor, more likely. Possibly both. It’s not just the switch. They’ll also inject him with something. But wasn’t it him, after all, who had just made that repeat decision? Suicide by medical team. A termination of a terminal man. No need to wait for the expiration date. Six months, they said. On the outside. It’s been three. No regrets this time. Just the inevitable.

“Do you think you might be ready by Friday?”

One blink.