In a small hotel room two witnesses ponder death while tending to the basic needs of a dying man. What exactly happens in the moments before death? (Doc Holliday, one-shot.)

A Matter Of Belief
by Bluemousey

She drifted in the cold current of air, invisible to the naked eye. So high up, a great distance above everything that people and buildings were unseen. Only large plots of land could be distinguished, separated by roads that looked like ribbons, stonewalls the size of pencil markings, or the sharp irregular ridges of the great mountains. The wind toyed with her, tossing her forward and back, or spinning her end over end that she often traveled upside down or backward. The sensation was not unpleasant. She didn't mind in the least if one moment she faced the earth and the next the blue sky. There was no hurry, no destination at the end of her travels.

Or was there?

An idea was forming in the back of her mind. A thought, a place, and in that place the image of a man waiting, as all living things must wait at some point in their lives. It was inevitable, unavoidable, and unstoppable.

Death.

But there was more, so much more to this stranger who lingered. He had a name, an identity, a reputation, and perhaps uniquely important – she knew him. Knew him better than anyone. Knew his laugh, his sighs, his tears. Knew what he loved, what he hated, knew in great detail the sadness he carried like a torch clutched tightly in the dark recesses of his soul. At one time he had been a part of her, joined long ago, and would forever after be an extension of herself.

She paused, turning around in the wind, no longer feeling playful but charged with purpose. She halted her motion in an effort to gauge direction and course, to read the ribbons and pencil lines, knowing instinctively where they led and the names of all the towns they passed through. The wind whirled around her, pushing now against a resistant force, and yet she was not something substantial. Not solid like a tree or building, and she was so much more than a collected of flesh and bones. She was simply beyond. Beyond something physical, she could no longer directly affect the natural world, and yet she was still connected to all things, living, or not living.

Hovering, she held her place, letting the airstream flow around her and listened, waiting for the sound that would tell her it was time. Only then would she approach. Moments passed, or was it hours, or days? She had no measure for time. The face and hands of a clock meant nothing. When the time was right she would hear it, the one sound, the one breath, the one word that would tell her it was time. And then it came, floating through the air and directly to her, only to her. It was a sound, a word, common throughout the world and yet, this sound, this word was meant for her alone. It was her name.

In the blink of an eye she stood on a city street, buildings loomed over her head, people walked passed, children played, horses pulled carts and wagons of wares in the muddy street. The coming and going of daily life was so familiar and at the same time it was painful to remember how she was once tethered to this reality. But no longer. Now she could watch, listen, observe, and even though all the people were vital and in many ways connected to each other, she was no longer tied to this path of existence.

Onward she walked, enjoying the sights and smells, she continued up the street heading toward the large building at the end of the block. On the sidewalk she passed a small child crying, bruised from his fall, his elbow lightly bleeding as he called for his mother. Instinctively she stopped, knelt down beside him, hoping to help sooth him in some small way. She reached for his hand, and spoke kind words, knowing he couldn't hear or feel her, and yet his bawling ceased. When a young woman approached to help the child, she stepped back, watching as the young mother dried the boy's tears with a handkerchief, and knowing that once long ago she had dried her little boy's tears with her hanky.

Again she heard her name being called.

Looking up she zeroed in on the sound and was soon standing inside a small dingy room connected to a dark corridor that only the servants used. It was plain and lacked the finery that the other hotel rooms had. This was not one of the rooms let to guests, but was used for the employees, or on occasion, for those in need of charity. The furniture was basic, dull, almost militant; the low light within the room only enhanced the depressing quality rather than hid it. Brown curtains covered the windows, closed tightly out of respect for the man within, and to also keep out the cold. A small chest of drawers stood against one wall. On the floor a dusty rug, well worn and aged. In the center of the room stood a small bed, and in it lay a man who had been poorly used by this world. He had struggled for many years to stay alive, to be happy, to find love. Broken now beyond repair, he was dying, evident by the pasty pallor of his cheeks and the steady wet cough that plagued him even through a drug induced sleep.

She walked closer, drawn to the invalid's emaciated face, thinning gray hair that had once been a thick rich blonde, full soft mouth that was so much like her mouth she placed her fingertips against her lips to judge the size and shape before reaching out to gently touch their twin. Her vibration disturbed him, his shallow raspy breathing quickened for only a moment. She smiled. Her task would be more easily accomplished now that he knew she was here.

The dank, rusty odor of blood, sour sweat, and human waste filled the air. He had been closed up in this room for two months, lingering at death's door, waiting, and waiting, and waiting for the next step, the next phase of existence to rescue him. And that was precisely why she was here.

Gazing across to the other side of the bed she noted a small wooden chair in which a doctor sat as he examined his patient. Slowly, the medical man shook his head, replaced his instruments and closed his bag. "Best make arrangements." He told the other occupant in the room.

"With what money?" The bellhop replied bitterly. "I bought his last bottle with my own funds. Out of pity. But I've got my family to think of too."

The doctor nodded and looked about the room until he spied a set of guns, and a small chest containing the meager belongings of the bedridden man. "Sell what you can, I suppose. I'll go talk to Manny at the saloon and get a collection taken up."

"Right." He nodded. "Will you come back?"

The physician paused while donning his coat and hat. "Later this afternoon, but I believe Mrs. Hyman said she would sit with him."

"Good." He nodded again, relieved that his responsibility would be less burdensome. "He needs constant care – bloodied several sets of sheets between last night and this morning. It just runs out of him now, poor soul."

Glancing back toward the bed the doctor's face took on a sad heartfelt expression, so uncommon in a medical man of his years. "Death is never pretty, nor is it poetic. Dying is bluntly honest, cold, bare of all pretenses. Death is as real as life gets."

From the bed the dying man moaned softly from the pain and pressure he felt within his chest. His cough escalated, shaking his thin body until the feathered mattress bounced from the force. "Mama?" He called out in his sleep, raising one thin hand in the air.

Reaching back, she took his hand and held it between her own as best as she could. Gracefully, she sat on the side of the bed facing him, looking down at his face as he struggled to breathe. "I'm here, Johnny." She told him out loud, knowing that only he could see and hear her. To the other men in the room she was invisible.

"He's been calling for her all morning." The bellhop said. "Spooky."

"Hmm." The doctor murmured. "It's very common. They always call for their mothers. It won't be long now."

His gray head turned toward the sound of her voice. "Mama?" Slowly he opened his eyes, revealing their vivid blue color as a wispy smile spread over his face.

"I've come to take you home, dearest." She whispered to him, leaning down to kiss his sweet face. "Are you ready?"

"It hurts." He replied in a rough, raspy voice, pressing his free hand against his chest.

The doctor gestured to the bottle of laudanum sitting on the chest of drawers, and the bellhop moved to retrieve it. Pouring a small amount in a glass he lifted the sick man's head and tipped the glass up to his lips.

The dying man only managed to drink a little of the golden liquid before he was overcome by his cough. A dark stream of blood shot out of his mouth, splattering the front of his nightshirt and the bed linen. Without a second thought the doctor reached into his coat jacket and pulled out his own handkerchief and cleaned the blood off his patient's lips and chin.

The bellhop clicked his tongue loudly and shook his head. "Who would have thought that Doc Holliday would end up like this? Poor soul."

Again the doctor tipped the glass up and this time he was able to give all the pain medicine to his patient. "This should help for awhile." He offered.

Amazingly, Doc responded in a gravel whisper. "Thank you."

Surprised by his patient's sudden coherency, the physician leaned forward to look more closely in the dying man's eyes. "Dr. Holliday? Do you know where you are?"

"Glenwood." The word was coughed, not spoken.

"Is there anyone you wish to see, or anything we can do for you?"

The gambler closed his eyes briefly and shook his head, the rumble in his chest growing louder by the second.

"The priest has been here and gave you last rites. Do you understand?"

Again Doc nodded weakly before turning his head to look at the woman sitting next to him. "I'm ready." He gasped, raising a trembling hand toward her face. "I've missed you, so."

The physician stood back from the bed and passed a quick glance toward the hotel employee and friend of Doc Holliday. The bellhop's eyes were wide with something resembling fear, but the doctor's expression was more commonplace. He had seen and heard many a death conversation, what was taking place now was all too familiar.

It was a matter of belief. Some thought it was spiritual, having faith that the human soul traveled to a higher realm at the moment of death. Like a door or window, the passageway would be opened allowing those who lingered to see and hear their love ones who had already departed this world. Others disagreed, contributing the one sided conversations of the dying to fever or a chemical imbalance as the human body shutdown.

After tending to the sick for more than fifteen years, the doctor leaned toward the spiritual.

He wanted the ugliness of death to be veiled by comfort, love and hope that something better lay on the other side. And what could be more beautiful than the belief that this sad, lonely, diseased ridden gambler's mother had come to accompany her son on his final journey? That she now sat on the side of his bed and that the hand he raised in the air was met and held in a loving embrace by the woman who gave him life.

"They can't see or hear me, John." Alice Holliday explained.

Doc issued a soft chuckle that quickly turned into a cough. "Oh, this is funny." He wheezed once more and then was still.

The two men standing by the bed quickly crossed themselves, the bellhop uttering a soft prayer. "Rest in peace, John Holliday." The doctor said softly while raising the sheet over his face. "No one deserves it more than you."

From across the room, neither man saw the tall blond gambler arm-in-arm with a woman with light brown hair and full lips like her son's. He leaned down and kissed her softly on the cheek and she smiled in reply. Turning as one, she slipped her hand through his arm and led him through the window, outside and then upward into the air and the high currents of wind. Where the world looked so much bigger, and the ribbons of roads, ridges of mountains would take them to wherever they wanted to go.

THE END

John Henry Holliday
August 14, 1851 to November 8, 1887
Aged, 36 years, 2 months, 25 days