Winston L. Mercy

It started out as a simple community project for school. Didn’t want to do it but my dad made me. I think it was just an excuse to him to keep me out of the house while he “disciplined” my mom for her behavior. He would always tell me it was the alcohol that made it bad, but I know he isn’t always drunk when it happens. The “behavior” he accuses my mom of is actually his own. He would come home with someone, look at me and my mother, and then he would say,
“I’ll be upstairs.”
My mom would stare at them as they went upstairs, then she would cry a bit. Usually she had a bag of frozen peas that she would hide with he got home, then put over whatever was physically hurting her. I know it wasn’t enough to help her true pain.
Back to the story, I was supposed to have a certain number of volunteer hours in order to have a good grade. I didn’t want to do it, but eventually I did by my father’s wish. I decided to work at the local hospital, sit around all day and bring the occasional coffee.
It was actually like that. I brought drinks and snacks when a patient asked me to, and I sat around. I didn’t speak with the patients, just brought what was needed, until one day this old man came in because of some heart troubles.
His name was Winston L. Mercy, a retired military veteran who fought in many wars, and saved many more lives. A local hero.
Anyway, I was wondering the halls on my second day of volunteering and was called to bring another pillow to Mercy’s room. I grabbed one, and went to the man’s room.
He was watching the television, some older show that I don’t know, and he looked at me and said,
“Welcome! Welcome! Come on in, I see you brought a gift! I’m glad someone remembered my birthday!”
I didn’t know what to say, I handed him the pillow, but felt awkward if I were to leave. It was his birthday.
“Sit sit!” He said to me, “I’m going to need someone to finish this cake for me, diabetes, damn thing. But aw well, I still have my youth!” There was no cake.
He was an excited old man, but it didn’t take long for me to realize his mind was going. He told me story after story about his life, and all the challenges he had to overcome. I enjoyed listening to him, it was, for those moments, a way to get out of my own life and life his. All the adventure, all the places he visited, I saw them all in my mind.
I would listen until I was told to leave, but the next day I would be back, even after my hours were filled. Soon, I spoke to him about my life, and my problems. He listened and gave me kind words to help me move on.
“I’ll be your dad if you want to. But your mom has to like me first!”
I laughed at that, but it was true, I wish that that man was my real dad, or at least a grandfather I could go too. But he wasn’t. I knew that.
I visited for a week, and got away from my life for those few hours. Life was finally getting better for me, I thought for once I had someone to rely on. Till the last day I saw the old man.
I went in, got my volunteer sticker, and proceeded to Mercy’s room to wish him good morning. I knew something was wrong the moment I stepped into the hallway. First, his door was closed. He always requested it open except for when it was absolutely necessary. After I entered the room, I noticed next that he had a few more monitors on him then the previous day, and lastly, I saw his face was paler and his breathing was labored.
I went to his side and immediately asked if he was alright. After a few seconds I asked again when I got no response, a bit louder, but still no real reaction. I wanted to touch his shoulder, shake him awake but I knew it wouldn’t help. The room was eerily silent, all except for the steady beeps, from the heart monitor, one of the only thinks keeping me hopeful he was alright.
I took a seat and just waited for a bit. The seconds became minutes, the minutes became an hour, and with every tick of the clock my heart sank lower. The truth was in front of me, hanging over my old friend like a dark cloud.
He was dying, and with each breath he became fainter. I didn’t cry. At the time, I refused to believe it, until finally he began to move. It was a quick twitch of the fingers, barely noticeable; I got up quickly and came closer the dying man.
His eyes flickered a bit, refusing to open without a fight. I whispered,
“Hey there. Feeling ok?”
He continued to fight to open his eyes and eventually they gave in, releasing his aged eyes to the room. I smiled, a true smile, one that broke to a frown at what Mercy said next.
“I’m dying.”
And with that I began to tear. I don’t know why, he didn’t yell, or seem scared. He spoke as if making casual conversation, even trying to through in a smile. I won’t lie, I began to cry. Tear by tear marched down my face and jumped from my chin.
“Why the tears son? Did something happen to you?”
He seemed to be more focused on making sure I was alright more than himself. I cried a bit more then said,
“Mercy… You’re dying.”
The old man looked confused for a minute then said simply,
“So I am aren’t I?”
He looked like he just lost something unimportant or something keep him a few minutes late. I looked at him confused.
“Everyone comes to this point, I’ve known that my entire life. Is that why you’re crying?”
I felt my face scrunch, and my eyes flood with tears. They dropped down onto the sheets, leaving large, damp spots on the blue sheets.
“Oh son, don’t worry about me, I’ll be fine. No tears now.”
I put my head down on the bed and cried harder, my sobs echoing in the quiet room.
“Son. I’m going to die, probably in the next few minutes but, I want to thank you. You kept me company the past week. I knew I could wake up the next day and talk with you, like you were my own grandson. I’m sorry about your family; I wish I could help more. The only thing I can tell you is get help. The police can help; it’s not right what your father does. You’re a good kid.”
He spoke slowly and with some labor, but he didn’t stumble or pause. He continued talking to me, comforting me as I wept for him. Finally, when he was done talking he closed his eyes and said,
“Time for me to go son, might want to stand back for the doctors to do their job.”
I looked at him and he smiled. I slumped up and forced my legs to back up. The heart monitor began to change, the steady beeps began to spike and in a matter of seconds, was dead.
I cried out in sorrow, in pain, in loneliness. I was all alone again. My only true friend just died not two feet away. That was that. The doctors came in, and I crumpled in the corner. A nurse ushered me to the waiting room. The entire scene was a blur, a flurry of movement as the nurses and doctors tried to bring the old man back. I knew that was not so, the man was dead.
The death shook me, much fiercer than I thought it would have. It was about three weeks after Winston Mercy passed away that I bought the gun. I got it from a kid in my class whose father was an avid gun collector. It was a small, handheld pistol. It probably only had one bullet now that I think about it.
I don’t remember what I was thinking, why I was doing it. My mind was autopilot, while I silently cried inside. Moving through the happy people, but knowing I went to an angry family… and facing it alone.
It was a rainy night, one that made me think the heavens were weeping for my sorrow. My father had just finished with my mom, and went down to the basement for his beers. I felt this was the last straw. I knew my mother could walk out of it if she tried but she insisted that he didn’t mean it, that my father was just going through a phase, but I knew he was too cruel to be in a phase. I wanted out, to feel the freedom I felt when I had my old friend back.
I sat on my bed, with my feet planted firmly on the carpet, and picked the gun up from under the pillow I housed it under. I had no thoughts, just a yearning for peace.
“Good bye mother.”
I whispered and let a single tear drop from my eye and put the barrel to my head. Time slowed down, I felt the weight of the gun in my hand, the muscles in my arm tightening; I became aware of every sense. Sounds that were far away or soft became loud and blaring, the lights made my eyes squint, and I felt every inch of my skin.
The moment was then, the moment I felt peace again. My hand tightened, my finger began to pull and then… then… I heard it!
“Don’t do it Son!”
I fired.
The bullet went into the wall next to me, leaving a quivering gun that dropped down to the floor. That voice I heard, I’m sure it was Mercy. He came to me to save my life. I began to babble Mercy’s name again and again, crumpling into a frightened heap on the floor.
So, to finish, the neighbors heard the gunshot and called the police. When they arrived they found a drunken man, a beaten woman, and a teenager with a smoking gun crying on the floor of his room.
My mother now is in a battered woman shelter, and my father is behind bars for a while. Myself, I am seeing a councilor now, living with my relatives. This is the first exercise I was told to do: write about why I had the gun and attempted suicide.
Looking back now, I am glad I didn’t do it. My freedom did come from the old man I guess. I thought I was free when he was around, but now I see he gave me a chance to live. His passing gave me the opportunity to live and now each day I thank him.
I wonder how the rest of my life will turn out; I’ll be seeing my mother next week. Maybe she is better now.
As for my father, I have resolved to live my life to repent his own sins. I will be a much better man than he was.
Good bye.