The last word
By: Mao Tss
Tags: Family, Short Story, The Last Word, Elderly, Fiction

Photo by Denis Oliveira on Unsplash

Today, I was eighty-four years old. To celebrate my birthday, my children put me in a retirement home. They formed a circle around my bed and sang “Happy Birthday” at the top of my lungs, on a festive air. It was my son who sang the loudest; he became so red that I thought for a moment that he was going to have an attack. Then they followed one another like the three Wise men to place gifts on the bedside table. When I discovered the loot, I thought they had not hesitated long between the pair of wool socks, the hand cream, and the plastic glasses case. They then kissed me effusively, but I saw that the heart was not there and that they were all in a hurry to leave. Because you see, I see everything, even if I can not utter a single word since my throat cancer.

It is certain that my illness has arranged them all. Overnight, I was deprived of the pleasure of throwing them horrors. What do you want, it’s my cute sin, I can not help but say unpleasant things. If some people are distinguished by their kindness, I excel to be mean. It must be said that I am very strong and that I have no equal to make a hurtful reflection, at the speed of lightning. And this, always at the moment when my interlocutor expects it the least; I know how to spare my effects. It’s not easy for everyone. I sincerely believe that it is a gift from heaven. My son claims that it is the good God who punished me for all my wickedness, but he will do less evil, that one when he will discover after my death that I bequeathed the Paris apartment to the woman cleaning. I decided to rob them the last summer after they went to the mountains without warning me. Since then, I tell myself that I did well.

It was while fighting with my daughter-in-law that I lost the use of speech. I had come that day to announce that I had made the decision to move to their home and had brought him plans for building the extension in their garden. Of course, I intended to cover all costs related to the work. I had told her that I only conceded this sacrifice in order to preserve their intimacy as a couple, to her and my son, but the ungrateful man roughly interrupted me to tell me that he was out of the question. There, I saw red and unpacked the heavy artillery; I have copiously watered it. I can tell you that I was well off to nail it to this minx when suddenly I felt a burning sensation in the throat. Then I got nasty coughing and there I started spitting blood. As much to tell you that the party was over.

What frustrated me the most was not to learn that I had throat cancer but to not have had the time to utter my last insult. I only managed to form the first syllable of the word “BI …” before my voice went out. This is the first time in my life that I have not had the last word.

As I could not speak, I began to communicate with all this small world through soft notes that I slipped anonymously into the pockets of jackets and bags of each other: nurses, doctors, patients, maids, etc. Many people tasted my venomous prose. Until I’m unmasked. Once again, the party was over. I was told that the treatment was over, it was now time for me to go home.

I decided to change my strategy. I wandered through the streets of the village, barefoot in a nightgown, conscientiously soiled my bed and accidentally set fire to my kitchen. Then my son declared a state of emergency after signing a check for five hundred dollars at the baker and explained to me in the presence of the doctor that it was better to put me under curatorship, in my interest, and that I was going to be placed in a retirement home. In vain I protested vigorously, writing on my slate “No, I’m not crazy,” but nothing helped. On the contrary, my reaction was interpreted as a new manifestation of my dementia. Only my daughter-in-law remained silent. It was there that I guessed that the vixen had understood my ride.

Today, it’s hard for me to hurt. I tried again to slip soft words here and there, but they do not produce the same effect. The nurses unfold them and throw them in the trash without reaction. They have hard armor but we must recognize that they see phenomena here. There is only my roommate, a paranoid old bitch, that I can still destabilize. At first, I was having fun but now I’m getting tired of it.

Every night, before falling asleep, I always check that it is in my pocket. I feel the paper through my nightgown. Yes, he is there, whole, with all his syllables. Because you see, even when I’m gone, I’ll have the last word.