Everyone in This Room Will Someday Be Dead

by Emily R. Austin

While waiting for my number to be called, I occupy myself by amateurishly diagnosing everyone in the waiting room with the condition that I imagine they are suffering from. That man has the flu. That lady has cancer. That kid is faking it. After completing my assessment of everyone in the room, I hear a familiar voice shout, “Hey there!”

After I ordered a large cup of milk, the coffee shop employee asked me to “please take a seat.” I thought that was a peculiar request, because I didn’t order a drink that takes time to assemble. Rather than question her, I just sat down. I spend a few moments wondering why she asked me to sit. I then begin wondering why it matters to me why she asked me to sit. Why do I need to know what her rationale is? Why can’t I just trust that the people around me have their own justification for their requests and their behavior? Why can’t I be like a dog and sit when I’m asked to, without wondering why? I glance at the small crowd of people surrounding me. Maybe we are like dogs. Everyone here is waiting for their drinks like trained animals. I look down at my hands, and then at the hands of the people around me. These are our paws. We are creatures.

I start to picture a world where Jesus had been killed using a different murder device. I picture little ceramic guillotine figurines. I imagine miniature nooses hung above children’s beds. Electric chair necklaces and earrings.

Sometimes I fixate on how disgusting humans are. I think about how we do things like litter and invent nuclear bombs. I think about racism, war, rape, child abuse, and climate change. I think about how gross people are. I think about public bathrooms, armpits, and about all of our dirty hands. I think about how infection and diseases are spread. I think about how every human has a butt, and about how disgusting that is. Other times I fixate on how endearing people are. We sleep on soft surfaces; we like to be cozy. When I see cats cuddled up on pillows, I find it sweet; we are like that too. We like to eat cookies and smell flowers. We wear mittens and hats. We visit our families even when we’re old. We like to pet dogs. We laugh; we make involuntary sounds when we find things funny. Laughing is adorable, if you really think about it. We have hospitals. We invented buildings meant to help repair people. Doctors and nurses study for years to work here. They come here every day just to patch other people up. If we discovered some other animal who created infrastructure in the anticipation that their little animal peers might get hurt, we would all be absolutely moved and amazed.

Should I be comforting him? What if I slip up? What if I say something like, Don’t worry, Jeff, life is meaningless; it’s strange and inexplicable that we exist to begin with. We are all basically dead already in the grand scheme of things, and our feelings of sadness are pointless—they are just how our meat sacks react to the chemicals in our bodies.

I tighten my eyes closed, harder. It’s bizarre that a body can be animated one second, and then turn lifeless permanently. Black. When we die, our bodies are garbage. We rot. Black. I can’t believe that I’m alive. Black. I can’t believe that I can believe anything.

It’s difficult for me to process my thoughts. I can hardly begin to examine anything before stopping myself and asking: Why? Why do I care that I feel this way? Why does it matter, for example, that my little brother is an alcoholic? Why does it matter that he says he wishes he were dead? Why do I care so much about this? I can’t make myself feel better about anything because almost every thought process I have is thwarted by my consciousness leaving my body and watching myself. There I am. Look at me thinking about how I don’t want Eli to be an alcoholic. Look at me now, I’m crying. That’s ridiculous. Hey! Stop crying. It doesn’t matter. Consider the vastness of space!

I have chosen happiness. Out of all the emotions set out on the table, I have selected it. It is by far the superior option. It’s insane to think I would have ever picked one of those shittier emotions before—when all the while, I could have chosen shiny, shimmering, iridescent happiness.