Michael Armstrong Was A Dead Man

Michael Armstrong was a dead man.

He had always known that. Even as a small child he knew that. The knowledge that he would end one day. That whatever he did, however he tried, it would all be gone and he couldn't do a thing to stop it. He went through the motions of being a child: toys, games, schools, but he didn't ever get very involved. As if he was just watching everything from the outside.

I'll be dead before the morning.

That was the thought he always had and the phrase he always used if anyone questioned his lack of enthusiasm. He drifted through life with a constant cloud of gloom surrounding him. No joy or merriment was ever allowed to enter his heart, as he knew that whatever fun he could build would be a waste of time. No plans for holidays as he would be dead before he could get to them. No creating of happy memories as there will be no chance to look back on them and enjoy them.

I'll be dead before the morning.

No passion except for one time later in life when he was involved in a drunken fumble with a Goth girl. She saw his bleak outlook as trendy and interesting until she realised that his miserable image was real and full time. Even a Goth likes a laugh now and then. She passed into and out of his life without even causing a ripple in his emotions. So sure was he of his imminent end that he could never allow a smile on his face. Surrounding himself in this feeling of pointlessness gave him a shield from interaction with other people. One or two tried to connect with him. They soon found that his permanent grey outlook would rub off on them, and instead of perking him up they would be dragged down. They all realised they had to put some distance between him and them or they would never smile again.

I'll be dead before the morning.

He found a job that involved no energy or enthusiasm, where he could plod on slowly waiting for the final day of his life to come. And all his fellow postal workers would just leave him to it. So the days and months and years passed by. As the time stretched on it still never shook his belief that he would be dead before tomorrow. As the world moved on, and wars and sports and great changes and historic events happened, Michael didn't notice. He worked and waited, convinced that his short life would end at any second.

I'll be dead before the morning.

The decades crawled past. In the bare surroundings of his small flat Michael lay quietly in his bed. The doctor hovered near his side, holding his wrist and feeling a feeble pulse. Over his shoulder peered the landlady from the doorway. The doctor's grim face didn't change as he gently placed Michael's hand back down on the bed. He then picked up his bag and walked over to the landlady who was looking up at him with questioning eyes.

“Well?” she asked. The doctor sighed and replied in a quiet voice.

“It's not good I'm afraid. His body has just worn out with age. How old did you say he was?”.

“I'm not sure,” answered the landlady “but he mentioned that he was retired before he came here and he's been here at least 20 years”.

“He's had a good innings then.” the doctor glanced back at Michael, then turning back to the landlady said “He'll be dead before the morning”.

And as Michael's heart gave it's last weak beat, for the first time in his life, he smiled, as he thought to himself 'I knew it'.