So, I was thinking about my last words. You know, my “deathbed” sort of last words.
I want them to be profound, of course.
Ideally.
I mean, it’s a big moment. I don’t think I entered this world with anything worth repeating. Likely just the standard screaming. Any old yahoo can scream.
I have had years to prepare for it—I should at least go out with something special.
I really don’t want it to be something mundane, like, “Is there any lasagna left?”. That’s not dignified. That’s not something that will be handed down through generations.
No, I need to go out with a bang. Some razzle-shnazzle. Something worth quoting. Believe it or not, but I do come up with the occasional maxim worth repeating.
They take me by surprise—like they didn’t originate in my head. Typically, I’ll think about them for a bit, then consider making a note of them. I used to carry a small notebook and miniature pencil around with me, for years, until I noticed that I never wrote anything in it.
Invariably, I decide that it would be pretentious to write these maxims down. Besides, how embarrassing—if I died with a scribbled list of last words to say, but hadn’t said any of them.
Now and then, I might even stoop so low as to imagine a scene of me saying them—on said deathbed—to someone. Someone who will be deeply moved by it.
Sorry to introduce a key character so late, but the kind of grandiose death I’m envisioning requires more than one leading character—there has to be someone else there. What’s the point in me saying it and having the wall echo it back?
No, we need the dying wise elder, and the youthful innocent. You need an innocent younger someone or other to pass it on to. You need an impressionable witness to the greatness unfolding.
And agreeable—you most definitely can’t have someone disagreeing with something you say.
God help me—I don’t want to go out in the middle of an argument. No way to have the last word. I’d have to haunt them. What do I know about haunting?
But, if I’ve learned anything, it’s that when I’m in pain, or any discomfort really, I’m grumpy. And when I’m grumpy—I’ve been told in no uncertain terms—I say grumpy things.
Fact is, death is likely to be a tad uncomfortable. I would imagine—I’m basing most of my understanding on movies, but I don’t think I’m wrong.
So, all things being considered, I’m likely to be grumpy. Unfortunately, “Nobody really cares anyway” are very likely to be my very last words. Grumpy and victimy.
I’m putting too much pressure on myself here—pressure is never a good thing.
Who am I kidding? With my social anxiety, I’ll probably get stage fright… there’s me… mouth open. Eyes-wide. Nothing coming out. Nothing. Just air. Deflating like a balloon. Mind rifling through dozens of rehearsed lines. Ah, but alas… none, quite right for the moment.
Because the line needs to fit the scene. You really need the right time and place too, don’t you?
An accident isn’t the right moment. I can’t be laying under a bus, missing a limb or two, and then as the paramedics desperately try to triage, suddenly start talking about the beauty of sunsets.
Ah, those sunsets. Those profound sunsets…
Assuming I can even speak. What if I don’t die until a ripe old age? An over-ripe age, even. What if I have dentures and they are out—I’m all vacant gums and solitary teeth? I’d have to cover my mouth with my hand, forcing people to lean in to hear what I’m saying. And they’d be telling me to just move my hand, and we both know, there’s no way I’m moving my hand.
And if instead they lean in? What if I have morning death breath? I might need bedside mints—best be prepared. Ah, but alas… what if I’m in the process of dying—uttering my profound last words—and accidentally choke to death on the mint?
Dying can be hazardous.
What if I start seeing dead people? I’ve heard that, sometimes, people see relatives who have passed.
Dead relatives. How long have they been watching? Really. Old friends I owe money to. Long deceased pets, still waiting to be fed. It’s hard to die epically with that lot in the peanut gallery.
I mean, God almighty—what if I see Death himself? How gruesome is that going to be? Some huge, black-robed, skeletal figure holding a scythe.
I mean, a scythe? He’s going to chop something off with that thing, right? Why else would he bring it? What was he thinking? Is that really necessary? How am I supposed to speak my lines with that hovering around in the background? Is that really what death looks like anyway?
But of course, that’s the problem. I don’t know.
The end could be anything, or nothing. Or maybe even something like this…
A noise from outside in the hallway.
Stephen rubs his chest—still aching from the sharp pain, and shuffles over to the door.
Stephen: “Who’s there? Is someone there?”
Voice: “Oh… yeah, sorry. It’s just me.”
Stephen unlocks and partially opens the apartment door to the dimly lit hallway.
Crouching on knees on the floor is a short, overweight figure in a clown suit with a chalk-white face, smeared red lips, and a crooked orange wig. The costume is faded but clean: oversized polka-dot pants, a tattered blazer, and a string of bright red plastic sausages hanging like pearls around the neck. A partially shaven beard shows through the worn patches of white makeup.
He is heaving and straining, busy gathering sheets of printed paper, obviously just dropped on the floor. His gloved hands clumsily clasp the loose papers, crumpled tightly to his chest, as he—heavily panting—clambers up to his feet.
He raises his painted eyebrows above small tired red-rimmed eyes, and strains to make a smile—a wide, fixed, crimson painted smile over his thin lips.
He sighs deeply.
Clown: “Mr. King? Stephen? Stephen King?”
Stephen: “Eh… last I checked.”
Clown: “Great—have the right place this time.”
Stephen: “Apparently... Eh, so, there’s no party here. How can I help you?”
Clown: “Yeah, party. That’s funny.”
He chuckles to himself.
He glances down, crumples more paper to his chest, as he pulls back his striped sleeve to look at his Micky Mouse watch. Stephen notices with increasing unease that there are no hands on the watch.
Clown: “Jesus. Really late. Look—Mr. King, we got some stuff to take care of. Sorry to rush you. This a good time for you?”
Stephen: “A good time for what? What’s this about? I’m making lasagna.”
Clown: “Oh, right. Lunch.”
Stephen: “Lunch? No, it’s like… six thirty… dinner time.”
Clown: “Right, right. My favourite time. Eatin’ time. Jesus, I’m starving. What are you having?”
Stephen: “I just said… Lasagna.”
Clown: “Right, no, no, you’re right. I did hear that. So, can I come in?”
Stephen: “No, of course you can’t. I eh… look, I have a friend coming over. Big guy. Fireman… actually. Why, are you here?”
The clown smiles, and holds up the crumple of papers.
Clown: “We have some business. You and me.”
Stephen: “No, I’m pretty certain we don’t. In fact, I think, you have the wrong apartment. You probably want Mrs. Smithe—two doors down. Old lady. Wealthy. Very frail.”
The clown chuckles and scratches his face. White flakes fall. He sniffs, and vacantly glances up the hallway.
Clown: “Yeah, that’s funny. No, no… understood. Good for you for being safety-conscious. I wouldn’t let me in either.”
Stephen: “Hey, don’t mean to rush you or anything. I can tell you’ve got stuff to do—important clown stuff, and all that. It’s just that my lasagna… it’s going to burn—so, I really need to go.”
Clown: “Yeah.”
He rifles through the crumple of papers in his hands, a rubber chicken falling from a sleeve and squeaking as it hits the floor.
Clown: “Fuck. Damn it—don’t need that. Ah, here it is—so, dude, I just need to formally inform you—man, I don’t know how to tell you this.
Stephen: “Well you don’t—”
Clown: “You see you had requested the full grandiose narcissist send off, but I’m—”
Stephen: “No. Nope. Didn’t. No, whatever the thing you just said.”
Clown: “No, you did. Dude—wouldn’t lie to you. Swear on my heart.”
He puts his hand on his chest, then moves it a couple of times trying to locate his heart.
Stephen: “Okay, so, I’m going to go now.”
Stephen starts to close the door slowly, but it sticks. The clown’s bulbous purple boot is blocking it from closing.
Stephen: “Nope. No, you need to move that. You know, I’ve got a gun.. on the premises.”
Stephen coughs nervously.
Stephen: “I mean, that’s not meant to be a threat or anything. Just information, that I, sometimes like to tell people.”
Clown: “Yeah… no, you don’t.”
Stephen: “And no money, because, you know—bullets. Right? Expensive. You know what I’m saying. The cost of ammunition these days—whew. Ammo… as we say in the trade. I don’t know how I afford to, shoot. As often as I do.”
Stephen starts coughing, and reaches for the papers.
Stephen: “Okay, okay, here, let me—cough—take a—”
Clown: “Oh no, no. Dude. Don’t touch. No man, I’m afraid we’re not allowed to let you see that. All I can tell you—unfortunately—couldn’t get your last words request in. Due to the fire. You don’t have false teeth do you?”
Stephen: “False teeth? No. Wait—what fire?”
Clown: “Good—looking after your teeth. Right on. Course, it doesn’t matter now.”
The clown’s wig has been slowly slipping as he talks, and now finally slips over his face. He steps back and grabs it.
Stephen seeing his chance, slams the door closed and locking it. He shouts through the door.
Stephen: “I’m okay. I mean, I’m sorry—you know, I think we’re done here and I need to go now. Thanks for stopping by. Okay, bye. Bye.”
Stephen checks the lock again, then peeks through the peephole in the door.
Nothing. No clown.
He panics, twisting side to side to get a better view of the hallway.
Stephen: “Jesus Christ—where’d he go?”
Clown: “Right here.”
Stephen screams and spins around, back hard against the door.
The clown is sitting forward on the living room sofa.
The BeeGee’s Saturday Nigh Fever on the radio is the only sound, as they stare at each other for a beat.
“Ha ha ha, staying alive, staying alive…”
Stephen: “How? What the—that’s not—”
Clown: “Dude. This is it. Time’s up.”
He voice mimics a character from a movie.
Clown: “Game over, man!”
Stephen is trying to unlock the door behind his back, but the lock is stuck firm. He starts banging on the door to the beat of the song.
Stephen: “Love this song. Really. Like. The. Beat.”
The clown just watches him as he repeatedly bangs his heels into the door, and strains to open the lock.
Clown: “C’mon man. I’m not going to hurt you. You remember me, right?”
Stephen’s frantic contortions slow as he gets flashes of old memories. Yes, a clown. Long ago. Childhood.
Clown: “I sat with you, remember?”
Stephen stops in his tracks. He did remember.
Stephen: “Mum… she left. You…”
Clown: “Yeah, that’s right. You were crying. I sat with you.”
Stephen: “I don’t understand. That was… forty years ago. How are you…”
The clown chuckled again, and tapped the seat beside him.
Clown: “Dude—fifty years ago!”
Stephen: “I don’t… why are you here? What’s happening?”
Clown: “Really? You don’t know what’s happening? Dude, you’re dying.”
Stephen: “Wha—this isn’t happening. It’s not.”
Stephen turns and fully yanks at the lock and door-handle. Nothing. He spins back.
Stephen: “Okay—this is silly. I’m losing my mind here. You’re a clown. That, for some reason, I can actually remember. It’s… just… it doesn’t make sense.”
The clown tosses the papers on the table. Fixes his wig. He sighs again.
Clown: “I know, man. Sucks. We all gotta go sometime, right?”
Stephen makes a sudden bolt for the window, leaping the sofa cleanly, and slamming into the triple pane glass. Straining, he tries in vain to unlatch it.
Stephen: “Nope. No. Not. Accepting. This.”
The window won’t budge. He can see five flights down on the street, people going about their day oblivious. He coughs and chokes, then starts to hammer on the glass with his fists, then his elbows, finally slamming into it with his whole body.
Stephen: “Oh—Oh my god, this is really happening. I’m trapped with a clown.”
Clown: “Hey. Not just any clown.”
Stephen: “Okay—calm down.. just calm… down. There’s a reasonable solution to this. Let’s take this… nice and slowly Stephen… you were making lasagna. There was that pain and I went to the bathroom for—”
Stephen glances down and sees a spilled bottle of white pills scattered under his feet.
Stephen: “—painkillers. Yes. Then the noise outside the door… and you. You appeared. You—literally—appeared. You were outside. Then, inside. That’s… Oh my God, I feel sick. Wait! Phone!”
Stephen rushed over and grabbed his cellphone from the charger. He frantically dials a number.
Stephen: “Hello? Hello? Is… hello?”
Sweat is pouring from his forehead, his shirt patched with sweat. He drops the phone onto the floor. His heart is pounding—chest pain is back.
Stephen: “I’m… I’m… but… there’s no one here. I don’t want to die alone.”
Clown: “You got me. That’s why I’m here—why you called me.”
Stephen: “I… didn’t call you.”
Clown: “‘Course you did. Everyone does. In the end.”
Stephen: “God? Wait a minute… God? You’re a… clown, for Christ’s sake!”
Clown: “Dude, get a grip. You’re losing it. You’re so special that the big dude personally comes to see you check out? Na…”
The clown rolls back on the sofa, his belly jiggling as he chuckles to himself.
Stephen: “Right. Okay smart arse, who are you then?”
Clown: “I’m you. I’m… part of you. Kept you safe, once.”
Stephen: “That’s insane. That’s literally insane. You… are insane. Did you drug me? Am I hallucinating? Is that it? This is a dream? A fucked up dream?”
Clown: “What is life, if not a dream.”
Stephen: “Oh, shut up.”
Stephen sits on the sofa, resigned.
Stephen: “Okay, fine. I’ll play along with this insanity. How will it happen? I mean, you’re mister wooooh… creepy death. I’m dying, right? Okay. How?”
Clown: “I don’t know dude. You picked me so you’d not have to deal with the details. Are you sure you want to do this?”
Stephen: “The drugs will wear off soon anyway, you may as well entertain me.”
Stephen lays back lengthwise on the sofa, like a bizarre Freudian therapy session.
Clown: “Man. Okay… Heart attack. You’re on the floor. Your lasagna is burning. So’s the kitchen.”
Stephen: “That… that… you know, that actually sounds quite plausible. Very good. You’re quite good at this. Have you ever considered writing thrillers?”
He coughs again.
Stephen: “Ah, the coughing… smoke.”
Clown: “Yeah.”
Stephen puts his arms behind his head, staring at the ceiling.
Stephen: “Oh you are good. But… I’m on the floor… so I’m still able to breathe.”
He claps his hands and sits up cross-legged.
Stephen: “Ah ha! Smoke alarm will go off and I’ll be saved. Too easy.”
Clown: “You don’t get it. You. Are. Dying. I wouldn’t be here if you were going to make it.”
Stephen: “Well, that’s just… stupid. There’s no one here. I certainly don’t plan on dying alone.”
Clown: “You have me.”
Stephen spins his legs off the sofa, still facing the clown.
Stephen: “You? A fucking clown? Seriously? Sorry, but… a clown. You honestly expect me to die alone with some freaky fat clown?”
The clown sits forward, idly pushing the papers around on the table. He reseats his wig again.
Clown: “Dude. That was uncalled for.”
Stephen: “Sorry. But—”
Clown: “You requested me… I was the memory you chose.”
Stephen: “I didn’t choose you!”
Clown: “Man, you don’t get it, do you?”
Stephen: “I don’t want it. I don’t want you. I want someone else. Where’s my children? My wife? Christ, my fucking lawyer, I don’t care, just not you.”
Stephen stands, steps onto the coffee table, and over onto the floor. Kicks the pill bottle across the room, then spins around.
Stephen: “I take it back. I want my request back. I have things to say. Important things. I can’t just die. There’s so much I still want to say—”
Clown: “You wanted to feel safe.”
Stephen: “There’s people in my life. I need them to know… they need to understand… how much I lo… how much I love them.”
Clown: “That was the last time you felt safe.”
Stephen: “They need to know… I couldn’t say what I felt… ”
Clown: “You closed down.”
Stephen nods, eyes suddenly full of tears.
Clown: “C’mon. Sit with me again.”
Stephen stands for a moment, his body shuddering. Slowly he drags himself around the table, and crumples next to the clown. The clown gently pats him on the back, and rests a firm hand softly on his shoulder.
Clown: “I’ll stay ‘til the end. Like before. Promise.”
Stephen: “Can I tell them now? If I say it now… will they hear me?
Clown: “I don’t know. If they don’t hear, maybe they’ll at least feel it.”
Stephen takes a last breath. Closes his eyes.
Stephen: “If you can hear me—I’m so… sorry. I did my best.”
Hey, thanks to everyone for your kind words and wonderful support. Appreciate it. I'm going to be releasing a few others in this vein in the coming months, all based around a similar theme, so if you liked this piece-watch this space!
Only you, could incorporate the fear, frustration, sadness & final submission to the inevitable. ❣️