The Testament of a Pathetic Man

❤: This story is barely two weeks old. It would usually take me longer to declare it ready for the world, but I figured not everything can be perfect all the time. So there it is, I hope you will engage with the reading of the testament (as in "testimony") of a pathetic man (as in "full of pathos").

Inspiration for the pathetic man in a bus under the rain, 2022

THE TESTAMENT OF A PATHETIC MAN

"Well I'm in Hell, I've got to tell somebody now"

Bike Ride, The Brobecks

I am beginning to write this diary with a sole intention, that is, to prove to myself that I am not dead. I am convinced that my death occurred not so long ago. I am currently a 30-year-old man, and today is September 22, 2025. Therefore, I would say I have been dead for about three years. You might ask how that is possible. Quite frankly, it has never seemed impossible to me; during this period, I have never lamented the impossibility of my condition. I am sure if you picture it in your mind for a bit, you will get it. As a big horror fan, I've noticed in many movies that when someone dies, they don't immediately realise it. Denial follows realisation, and then comes the part when one moves on to figure out what is preventing their soul from leaving earth and finally accessing Heaven. I cannot properly prove to you that I am dead, but I can't prove to myself that I am alive either. My plan, therefore, is very simple: I believe if anybody were to read my script, it would mean that I existed in a time when I could still create it, hence the date and my age at the beginning. As for my name, I believe it is unimportant; if I were dead, they would find this block of cheap paper with the rest of my personal belongings, and they would know it is me. They would publish it alongside a terrible photograph with a blue cloudless sky edited in the background and provide an unexhaustive biography, which would be to my life what bones are to a corpse, a pulpless simplification of the truth. Maybe it will be my mother or my younger sister, or maybe nobody at all, given that my current status is spiritual and I left the real world long ago. Now, dear reader, if you will really exist one day, that is to say, if I really exist now, allow me to explain myself better, to clarify some points, and, to do that, to go back in time with the story of the life and death of a pathetic man.

If I am dead, my true regret is not seeing my sister grow up. She was in middle school when the accident happened. She is the most delicate person I have known, and that is her misfortune; her mix of fragility and rage sparked most of our family’s conflicts, but I saw it as a strength. She was afraid—I could see it in her eyes—a deep fear hidden beneath the surface. The girl I remember would be sixteen now. If I am really gone, maybe she is different in reality, not furious and destructive, but a strong young woman with both charm and intellect. In this strange state that is my life, she quit school because of pain in her mind. One day, a classmate’s word, the next a bad grade, and finally, she stopped going. I know what that’s like, but I can’t help her. My words vanish, useless. That makes me feel insubstantial, as if I disappeared before I could help. If I were alive, I would not be so powerless, and she would thrive—alive, educated, complete. If my conscience stopped in 2022, my memory would be of a flower ready to bloom. God calls his creatures to rise with spring; the cold yields to the sun. As life returns each spring, it seems natural to believe the snow, three years ago, simply covered a lifeless root.

I have a girlfriend. Actually, I am sure that my girlfriend is an invention of my current status, as she entered my life after the accident. Let’s pause for a moment, reader. Here, I’d like to share the second part of my theory: I believe I am either in Hell or Purgatory. I consider myself a good Christian, and from what I recall, Heaven is entirely different from what I am experiencing now, so I prefer to rule it out from the beginning. As for Hell, the pure child-like joy I have experienced with this beautiful lady eradicates the possibility. She wasn't my first love; the others that came before had only contributed to a certain indifference and detachment that had always been my trait. This beautiful soul arrived one day in the form of a shop assistant, and ever since, she has smiled at every other theory I came up with. Because you see, reader, I couldn't help but involve her. It broke my heart to put such a pure ray of sunshine in contact with my putrifying mind. Unfortunately for me, I knew since that day at the store , because I didn't need anything when I entered the big glass automatic door, that she was the one I would have married. If this is a fantasy, I don't know how long it’ll take to complete it, but I hope I'll have my wedding scene. After all, I have read somewhere, Hell is a state of torture given by prolonged waiting. It gets confusing when you compare it to the definition of Purgatory, as it was theorised as a place of waiting in torture. Is it waiting for the torture, or is it the other way around? The waiting seems more than confirmed in every case, and I hope it is long so I can see my banal dream, the fable in my mind, come true, and watch her in a long puffy gown, accompanied by her father, to the altar where I am standing.

Given my state, reader, I don't think I will be able to have children. Maybe, dear reader, I wouldn't have had children anyway. I cannot recollect every single moment, every action, every word that one of my two parents said to me that marked me permanently. I can barely annoy you with the information that our neglectful behaviour is generally passed down through generations. It has already destroyed my sister, and to me, that is enough to reconsider putting a child in the world. I am not afraid, don't get me wrong, I have just drawn my conclusion. As for my partner, we obviously discussed it, which means we hinted at it numerous times until the moment we both had guessed the other wanted to remain childless. Sometimes, after I had joked about being too mental to be a father, she seemed absorbed in a complex meditation that I knew was far from anything I could comprehend. Being a mother is an experience reserved for her, a hellhole of drastic change inaccessible to men. Still, I would have gladly stood there without trying to force myself into rationalising things too much, I would have cleaned up the vomit until necessary, done the laundry, sat in a corner until the doctor called me to put my firstborn in my trembling arms and announce his gender to my crying face. I never understood people who don't like babies and worry too much about diapers, crying, and staying up late. That stage, just like everything else in life, doesn't last long, maybe about two years. But given my condition, I had to think twice. Besides, as soon as I have done my time, it would be harsh to leave the movie-like scenario of a cosy home, a fireplace, a wife cooking, and a baby playing on the carpet as I come back from work.

Reader, unfortunately, there's another reason I couldn't bring myself to have kids. I consider myself a rational being, and I have never been disposed to superficial cynicism. I believe there is good in life, I truly do. My girlfriend is the best I could ask for, my high school years wandering around with friends have been the best I could ask for. However, it would be a pity to ruin my waking dream with images of my children's unhappiness, given the chaos of the world I was put in. As I am writing, Russia has invaded Poland. I am not skilled in politics, but in history class, to help myself memorise concepts, I used to picture war as a game of chess. Using that metaphor, I can explain to you that Russia's move is far from a checkmate, as its declared intent is to conquer the old USSR States, which were joined together and controlled by a dictatorship not long ago. At the same time, the Palestinians, one by one, even the sole name of their people, are being destroyed by some impostors pretending to hold the herald of our Lord. As a Christian, I have considered the possibility that this is the end of the world, and I am determined to be among God’s favoured. But if a letter were to arrive with my name on it, if my mother were to pick it up from the mailman's hands and give it to me, would I still be theorising my death with the written proof that I exist in this timeline? And if I go to war, what was this diary all for? Another question I have been pondering is, would I do what the letter asks of me? In this world, reader, I can't leave my children fatherless because of war. I'd rather stay home and be their father than think of my future wife alone working incessantly in a role not meant for her. But maybe this is part of the punishment, maybe this very state of doubt is part of my purification.

I know I have one more question to answer, reader, in exchange for your attention and alliance. You can't just run across somebody from a piece of paper and tell them you're dead without offering any explanation. So, reader, here are the facts: in the winter of 2022—one of the coldest winters in a long time—I was relaxing in my room. Exam season was over, and I had just made my usual recipe for relaxation: good quality tea, soft ambient music, and a wool blanket. The only thing I was missing was my heated water bag. I rushed away from my bed quickly, so as not to spoil the warmth impressed on my skin. The water bag had not been used since last year. It was an electric bag; as soon as the power was turned on, it only took five minutes for the heating wire to boil the water inside. I started to sweat. Reader, you must know that ever since I was a kid, I have been terribly afraid of electricity. Only in my current status, I have done some research and found out there is an actual term for it, and there are people who suffer from this condition every day. I have memories of eight-year-old me staring at the outlet as if the three small holes contained an abyss where something could emerge. I was in the kitchen trying to help with something, perhaps a birthday cake.  My mother would lift me up and sit me on the sofa, scold me for not being a brave young man, and keep me far from the outlets just in case. Reader, I decided to act braver than I actually was, and to not hesitate before plugging the charger. Unfortunately, one should live according to his possibilities and not challenge his nature too much. The bag was leaking water right from the outlet. I saw it when it was too late for my hand to stop. I figured in this situation everything would have gone black; instead, everything went white, and the explosion deafened me for what seemed like thirty seconds. After that, I heard my mother asking if I was alright. Then came my sister from the next room. “It was an old bag, we should have thrown it away last year”, my mother said, “We'll have your father buy a new one when he gets back from work”. But something felt off from that day. Life started to feel like I was living it from the background. I had just turned twenty-seven, and it began to feel like I had taken the further seat in a bus where I couldn't see the driver. My mother, the first voice I had heard after the accident, spoke in a tone that was not her own. She was sweeter in a way, but the worst type of it, almost condescending, or pitiful. From that moment on, it didn't stop feeling like that, to the point that she became intolerable to me. She would continuously ask how I was doing, where I was, all in that melancholic pitch I could distinguish even from a phone call. I thought about her in the nineties, tough but caring, ready to smack me and solve everything with a hug. In my fever, I thought she was in the nineties, colourful and bold like the jumpsuits she used to wear. Instead, that version of her looked faded. The night after, at 1 am in a storm, she came back home gloomier than usual. She had been coming home late for two weeks: an old uncle, my grandmother's brother, was very ill. Everybody was just expecting it to be over soon, but in the meantime, he needed care, and she was the closest relative available. Since he didn’t live far, she would stay there all day and come back home when he was sleeping. That night, when she entered, dripping, no umbrella in her hand, she closed the door and stood in silence, the muffled sound of rain behind her. She didn't really say anything, nor did I ask. Three days later, at nine on a Sunday morning, I got up and put on my best black clothes to attend the funeral. Don't laugh at me now, reader, but I did spend a quarter of an hour examining my closet to put together the perfect outfit. It was an interest I still couldn’t explain. Only months later, my mind started to ponder the possibility of living like a real vampire . Reading Dracula when I was 13 was a mistake for such an impressionable mind as mine was. And so came the leather jacket, the black boots, and sometimes, between the ages of 15 and 18, even the spikey collars. Then came the accident, and I began to think of death in a more detached way ever since I contemplated the possibility of resembling a rich, charming, eclectic undead. That morning in particular, I imagined I could wear my best outfit, the black tuxedo with the blue shirt and matching tie I had worn for my Confirmation, about seven years before. Because I couldn't find it, I had to settle for the most elegant pair of pants I had and a white shirt. The church was only a quick walk from my house, and I decided not to take the car. It only took twenty minutes- twenty-one according to my phone- the white facade of the Church revealed itself at every step. I had a terrible feeling. I could have vomited if it weren’t for the wonderfully fresh air. At the time, I didn't have my girlfriend, as you have read already, but I had a couple of very sweet friends with whom I lost contact years after. I wonder where they are now. They moved for college, and then started whatever careers that allow you to travel the world. I wonder if they think of me. They phoned me the day before and they asked me not to go. Unfortunately, I had made up my mind; I don't show it, but I am very respectful of family ties. Of course, I didn't want to attend; nobody wants to attend a funeral; they all just wish for it to be over soon. What I wanted was for my family to see me there. Suddenly, tears flew from the other side of the screen, and all became too dramatic for me to bear. I could understand them, my mind having proved very impressionable in the past. They said they wanted to bring me to a coffee shop, the three of us alone. We would have had my favourite lemon pastry and a cappuccino, then we would have wandered around as if we were fifteen again. My favourite Sunday morning activity was way more alluring than a funeral mass, yet there I was, walking towards something that, as I realised after my first step on the marble floor, scared me more than it should have. I made my Sign of the Cross starting from the head and towards the chest, then on the two shoulders, like I was taught in Catechism when I was little. I considered myself a good Christian; it's just that over the past months, I had been too busy to go, and I knew my pastor would be upset. Yet it wasn't him I was fearing. I sat in the second row; my mother, father, and sister occupied the first row, next to two others who were already there. The priest, dressed in purple, started his celebration. I must have zoned out completely during the homily, staring intensely at the purple dress he was wearing. I felt disrespectful, but still, my eyes wouldn't move until the priest's final words. And so when he said to walk away in Peace, I lowered my eyes just a bit from the parlour. Only then was I struck by what I had feared for so long. There you had it, the casket, richly covered in red and blue roses, perfectly closed. Reader, my uncle was many things in his life, but one thing that he had never betrayed was his humble condition. That heavy decoration must have cost at least a hundred; such a spartan man would have hated it. Why corrupt his image with it? Everyone was getting up, moving slowly toward the main door, including the two sitting with my family, with a distinctive ease in their movements. They were my friends, and they walked towards the casket and helped my father and grandfather carry it. What a bizarre choice, don't you agree with me? I know my uncle and his sons were not on speaking terms, one of those tensions that spans through decades, and in the end, both parties forget what it was really about. Reader, I know that it was me in that casket. That I am dead now and that my mother, father, sister, and girlfriend are phantoms playing a part in a terrible play I don't want to be in. I don't want to exist in this state anymore. Do what you will with the sad testament of a pathetic man, but if you find yourself in Hell, even in the most terrible condition, please, live your life to the fullest.