Last Breakfast
by D.H. Parish
Horrific Scribes Extremity Rating:
Karl descended the stairs in darkness. He walked into the kitchen and by habit almost flicked on the switch before stopping himself. The lights might wake everyone up. He didn’t need them; he could see well enough to make coffee in the dawn’s early light that crept through the windows. He had to make coffee. He always did. Brew enough for him and Maggie, even if she wouldn’t get up for another hour or so. She might suspect something was off if she did and he hadn’t. Keep to your routines, Karl.
He retrieved the soft foil bag next to the coffee maker and counted each scooped tablespoon. The aroma was rich and earthy, the way a proper morning should smell. He would miss that. He filled the machine with water and turned it on. The quiet drip drip of the process always surprised him. Something so transformative should be louder.
He watched the pot, waiting until it finished to pour himself any.
“Hi Daddy,” a voice said.
Karl flinched. He turned to see his daughter in her robin-blue footies, a pink bunny clutched in her right hand.
He hadn’t expected this. More precisely, he’d hoped against this, although he knew plans don’t pay attention to hope.
“Hi dumpling,” he said. “Why are you awake? It’s still dark.”
“I heard you,” she said.
“You should go back to sleep, sweetie. It’s too early for breakfast.”
“But you’re up, Daddy.”
“Yes, but I have to go somewhere.”
“Can I go too?”
“No, Katie, I’m afraid not.”
“Please!”
“No.”
“But why?”
“Because it’s a place only daddy can go.”
“Is it work?”
“Sort of.”
“Then I don’t like your work.”
Karl laughed. “I don’t either. But sometimes we have to do things we don’t really want to do to make things better.”
“Like eat broccoli?”
“Yes, like eat broccoli.”
“I’m hungry. Can I have cereal?”
“You should go back to bed.”
She thrust the limp rabbit upward toward her father. “Mr. Hoppy is hungry too.”
“I don’t–”
“Please!”
“Shhh. Be quiet. We can’t wake Mommy.” Karl glanced at his watch: 5:10. He sighed. He still had time. “Okay. What kind would Mr. Hoppy like?”
Katie thought for a bit, then offered a broad, solicitous smile. “He wants Fruit Loops.”
Karl knew Maggie would say no, would insist on his saying no. United front. Consistency in child rearing. Be resolute. But if ever there was a day for exceptions…
“Why not?” he said with a conspiratorial tilt of his head. “But don’t tell mommy. Promise?”
“I promise,” she swore. She climbed up on one of the chairs at the kitchen island to await the bounty, placing Mr. Hoppy in front of her on the white laminate countertop. “I double promise.”
Karl opened the cabinet and ignored the respectable choices in favor of the brightly colored box with the garrulous toucan. He grabbed a green plastic bowl, poured a generous serving of the colorful rings, found a spoon, and placed it all in front of her.
“Here you go, pumpkin.”
Katie crossed her arms and grimaced.
Dear Lord, he thought. “What’s wrong?”
“We need milk, Daddy.”
“Oh, of course.” Karl found the carton in the refrigerator, opening and shutting the door as quickly as possible. He doused the cereal with milk until the sugary rounds almost overflowed.
Katie dove into the bowl. Her eyes lit up as she chewed the first mouthful, and she grinned like a junkie who’d gotten her fix. He poured himself some coffee and took a sip. It tasted wonderful. He would miss moments like this.
Perhaps he should reconsider.
They said he could, up until 5:30.
He knew himself well enough to know he could never do it himself. He wasn’t strong enough; his battle with cancer had proven that.
Battle? More like an ambush followed by full retreat. Everyone, it seemed, expected him to be a warrior in this struggle, like he’d somehow volunteered for it. He wasn’t a warrior. Where society expected, demanded strength, he felt weak, inadequate, scared. Where others endured through the figurative hail of bullets and persevered while posting endless upbeat updates that placed any suffering in the “service” of cancer awareness and fund raisers, he couldn’t take it. He just wanted it to be over. Anything to end it sooner.
“We’ll beat this thing together,” Maggie’d said when he got the diagnosis. She was so earnest, so positive. Found the “best” doctors. Went with him to every visit. Researched all these diets and exercises to follow and monitored him like a hawk to make sure he did what every medical professional said, no matter how much he might resist or slack off. She was his coach, his trainer, his taskmaster.
Maggie meant well, but he’d reached the point of resentment. He didn’t want to try “just one more thing.” He couldn’t hack it. He wasn’t meant for this. Was it cowardice? Perhaps. But it was his life, and no one who hadn’t crossed into this uncharted world really understood its geography. Thanks for your empathy, but you’re right, you can’t imagine how I feel.
Katie munched her way through the Fruit Loops, milk sloshing on the table with each happy, crunchy mouthful. He admired that unbridled, uncomplicated joy. He knew that in the current state of affairs he would never feel that way again. And that was not how he wanted to live. So, after several months of living with the sentence and uncertain prospects that seemed likely to dim, he’d come to a decision that this had to end.
He knew the same weakness of character that the cancer diagnosis had revealed meant he could never take the next step on his own. Somewhat to his surprise, however, he was able to find a service that would do it for him. Who knew such a service existed? In a world where the fulfillment of every fetish is just a few clicks away, maybe he shouldn’t have been surprised. He’d certainly never thought about it before, but then again, he’d never been in this situation before, facing such a prognosis. Demand always breeds supply.
The whole arrangement was, for want of better word, mundane. Hell, the thing was negotiated over Zoom with no in-person meeting required. Okay, it wasn’t Zoom exactly, given the necessarily hidden nature of the transaction, but it might as well have been. They explained in a rather persuasive PowerPoint how simple it would be. Terms depended, naturally, on how it was to be done, where it should happen (for appearance’s sake), how much pain was to be minimized, how it was all to be discovered (or hidden), and the costs for each. Just point and choose, like picking different meals at McDonald’s.
It was a soft sell, and they’d given him a week to consider. Karl slept little as he agonized over the decision for the next two nights. The post-chemo nausea that greeted him on the third morning, followed by a bout of violent retching, clinched it. He stared deep into the bilious brown remains splattered in and on the toilet and made his decision. He cleaned up, logged in, clicked the boxes, signed everything, and was done five minutes later. They then sent him instructions via a vanishing messaging system detailing exactly what he had to do and what to expect. It would happen the morning after next between 5:40 and 6:40 am, which was a narrower window than the HVAC people ever offered.
So here he was, peacefully sipping coffee from a chipped “World’s Sexiest Dad” mug while his daughter enjoyed a moment of childhood bliss. This was nice. Really nice. Did he really want to end it all? He looked at his watch again: 5:19. All he had to do was text “NO” within the next ten minutes. He wouldn’t get his life back if he did, but he would get more of these moments for another six months, maybe a year, maybe even two if he “fought” and beat expectations…
“Can I have more?” Katie asked as she used her fingers to push the last two yellow rings onto her spoon.
“Do you think Mommy would approve?” Karl asked.
Katie looked around to make sure Maggie wasn’t there. “Yes!”
“Well then, why not?” He poured more cereal over the pinkish milk at the bottom of her bowl. “But after this, you need to go back upstairs and at least pretend to be asleep.”
“Okay Daddy.”
“And remember, sweetie,” he said, “this is our secret, right? Don’t wake Mommy.”
Katie nodded vigorously, then put a finger to her lips that bent up in a slightly mischievous curl before she grabbed the spoon again to shovel in more Fruit Loops.
Karl ruffled her brown mop of hair as she wolfed down the extra Fruit Loops. Tears welled in his eyes, and he wiped them away with the back of his left hand. Did he really want to lose all this? He reached in his pocket for the phone and stared at it. Maybe he could fight. He found the contact and typed an “N.”
“Daddy!”
“What sweetie?”
“Put down the screen. Mommy said no screens at the table.”
“But…”
“No expectations.”
Karl laughed. “You mean exceptions. Like the one we made for Fruit Loops?”
Katie scrunched her face and crossed her arms. “No, that’s different.”
Karl could tell she was serious and didn’t understand the irony of her demand. “Katie, sometimes…”
He felt a sudden lightheadedness and then the all-too-familiar sickness. He rushed to the sink, grabbed its metal rim with his hands, and leaned his head into it as he vomited, giving back the coffee before dry heaving several times. His mouth tasted bitter.
“You are sick because of the screen.”
He turned to look at her. “You’ve had enough. Just go back upstairs.”
“But I’m not done yet.”
“Yes, you are. Go back upstairs. Now.”
Katie climbed down from her chair, grabbed Mr. Hoppy, and left. “You’re not fair, Daddy.”
The moment of sickness having passed, Karl stood up straight. “Life isn’t fair.” He watched Katie ascend the stairs back to her room, waiting until he heard her door close. He looked at his watch again.
5:29.
He picked up his phone and shoved it in a pocket.
Avoiding any loud clicks or door closings, he snuck to his car. The neighborhood streets were dead quiet as he cruised through them, neither joggers nor dog walkers in evidence. The roads were still empty when he came to the first traffic light, which naturally turned red on him. Just his luck. He thought about running the light but decided against it. Not his nature. Waiting for the green, he turned on the radio, and the car speakers began to blare out the familiar intro riff from Blue Oyster Cult’s biggest hit.
They said he’d get notice when it was starting, but this seemed too cliched.
Besides, he thought as he sang along with the chorus, it was a little off point. After all, “Don’t Fear the Reaper”was about suicide, and Karl was all about living.
Sure, he’d sold his soul online, but he was ending his misery through the guarantee of a better life, one that would be long and healthy and successful. The added price of his family had made the decision hard, but to his credit, he’d negotiated in exchange for a slightly less beneficial package (one month less of life) so that Katie wouldn’t feel a thing when it happened.
He hadn’t done that for Maggie. She would meet cruel and painful death. But Maggie was a big girl. She could fight it. Karl hoped he might be able to guess after the fact how they did it, but he wouldn’t be allowed to witness it. That option was offered, but the cost was a bit more than he was willing to pay.
The light turned green, and Karl drove on. He knew he would never learn the truth, but he would always have an aching curiosity to know how Maggie would respond in the end. How she would beg. How she would cry. How she would scream.