Is Nothing Sacred?

Nihilo Sanctum Estne?

Few of them are meant to grow old, while others are destined to be fond or painful memories, forever young, or an eternal age in your mind.

In this great tragedy, many heroes die young, even by means of comedic folly. Some heroes or major players die in the most honorable fashion. But they, too, are not remembered.

What thoughts did this young man have while riding down this hill, past his favorite tree, and past the Weir Farm, while suddenly being struck by a Jeep Wrangler, dying four minutes after the wreck?

Was it the path he had taken, his inexperience, or the weather? For the road was winding, and his palms were sweating in the summer’s sun, it may have been him to blame for his death.

He had been riding a scooter for no more than two months, and the young man had a strong affinity for speeding faster than a novice, nor any motorist, should be riding,

But at what difference does this make; a young man’s death…whether he had been black or latino, it would be of no less importance. Any life may very certainly be taken away. Perhaps those who have died young are not the blessed, but are those that have failed the duty for which they had been created.

Had he been more like his older sister, he could have gone far in life. By using the word far, it is only to imply that in societal standards, a man who goes far, is a man who lives in decent moral standards, a career which is respected, and perhaps, any post-grade school success.

Had he been like his younger brother, he could have chosen a safer method of going off the beaten path, by joining the armed forces. This in itself, could have enabled a safety net, therefore setting up an even more respectable life of social acceptance.

But, the young man, with his mangled dead corpse ripped apart by a jagged metal guardrail, was not alive, and had he been, was no more than a melancholic failure; self-absorbed in his way of living. He once thought his life to be a romantic gesture to those who write, and dream. An ideal which always proves to be tragic, yet as his body bled out, his last thoughts may have pathetically exalted a traitorous turn.

There is no way to know for sure, however, what his last coherent thoughts were.

“I want my mom!” He could have possibly cried.

“I’m content with the way I have lived my life…” though, this possibility is farfetched, as the young man was never happy, even in manic happiness.

His youth was nothing but a dream, yet others may always remember him in a certain way. They may remember his bright blonde hair and almond brown eyes. Some, with the image of an overweight drunkard, with wavy dark hair, too long to manage. Others perhaps, remember him as a frail, thin artist with pale skin and trembling hands. Some may even remember him to be a handsome, tan and adventurous figure.

Those that were close, will remember him asleep, possibly crying, and maybe his moodiness, arguing about an opinion they did not share.

He, as vain as he was, tried to wipe blood from his face, and fix his hair in his last four minutes of life. After the pain, and awe of the entrails seeping from his open stomach, he hoped to god the onlookers would call him handsome.

God would laugh, and the young man was aware of the comedic value.

Although the young man got one last glimpse of his favorite tree (aside from the weeping willows of the public garden,) the one that as a child, signaled that the beach was near, he wished that the ocean was his last image.

As he lifted his head, three strangers walked towards him. They did not know his father was disappointed in him, they did not know his mother would cry, they did not know anything about him. (The driver, who blamed himself, would eventually drink himself to death.)

The onlookers did not know that there was a dog, who would never hear the young man’s voice, nor feel his hands brush his blonde fur. They did not know of the many women the man courted in secret, never attaching himself to one. They never knew his dreams of having a family, and the children he wished to have. They didn’t know of the demons and guilt the man was tormented by every moment he was alone.

They only saw a young man dying. They only saw his open stomach and an arm hanging only by muscles that were spared from the guardrail. They were sick and wanted him to die faster.

They didn’t care for the young man’s story. As life is only meant for those living. Those who are dead, or dying, are nothing more than a memory. The sight of his death was just a reminder that they too will die. They looked away, talking amongst themselves, or on their phones, calling 911, and texting someone who could never help.

The young man cried out his last words, which no one would hear.