The Man Who Could Never Quite Die

Blurb

Look, I been tryna kill myself for hundreds o’ years. And no matter what I try, I just darn ain’t able to do it.

Tryin’ again today, like I always do.

Oh, but in the way is this grey cat that’s stuck up a building. Sassy little shorthair, this one. Demanding I help it like I ain’t got nothin’ better to do.

Did I mention I can speak to cats?

Regardless, I definitely don’t have a good feeling ‘bout this one.

Muslim author S. H. Miah delights in a new (slightly dark) adult comedy short story about a man who just cannot kill himself no matter what he tries, and the cat that (maybe) lets him find a little hope in the world.

The Man Who Could Never Quite Die

Look, issa tough life when you’ve been living for three hundred years.

Everyone and their mother nowadays (and probably the dog, too, since I can understand their barks now) wants to live forever. Wants power. Wants to be indestructible.

Trust me, I would know. When I, Hassan Nowlief (yes, the pronunciation you’re thinking of is correct) was young—ha, young the old fart says, referring to the age of eighty—I too wished I could tie a lasso around my good health and drag it across life’s plains with me.

Now?

Now I can’t be arsed for good health. But it don’t matter what I do to kill myself, it just flat don’t work. Trust me, I been trying for about two hundred years, and I’m practically outta ideas. Just last week, actually, I was in the rundown parts o’ London. Not near them skyscrapers in Euston and Canary Wharf where corporate shills sell their souls for sweet, sweet profit. No, I’s in the East side of the city, where a bird can take a shite on your car and a homeless kid’ll nab your smartphone and there ain’t nothing you can do about it.

Police’re ‘bout as useful at stopping kids as a broken condie, that’s what.

Now, that ain’t to say that East London don’t have its fair share of tall and interesting buildings. I’s walking across snow-addled streets (them ones with more ice than snow), and stopped when I clocked a meow in the distance. The direction of which revealed an abandoned fire station, dust creeping across blacked out shutters like it’s got the shivers, red paint on the fire truck parking bays looking more washed out than my three-hundred-year-old paley-brown skin.

Fair breeze in the air, too, which is a rarity in London’s winter, and my eyes followed the cool wind dissolved with falling snow up to the top of the fire station, where on the roof I spotted a bloody cat of all creatures. Now, cats are some of the most sneaky animals known to man, and this British Shorthair from the looks o’ things wasn’t no different, staring at me like I was the one sprouting a second head.

(Did that once, ain’t a nice experience, let me tell you, having four eyes instead of two.)

Cat was meowing at me, translation o’ which I’ll put here: “Oi, come get me down ya bastard! Can’t ya see I’m stuck up here? Bloody waste of space ignorin’ me.”

Then the feline who I called Greyprick in me own head—ha, get it, Greyprick cos the cat was grey and a prick…them type’a jokes got old ‘bout the time Victoria died—gave me this haughty glare. Like I was a puny stupid human and couldn’t be trusted with anything, like I was beneath her station no matter what I did.

Bloody species-ist, Greypick was. Not that Greyprick was in any danger as it was. She got up to the roof somehow, probably by climbing dumpster trucks and pipes. She could just as easily get down, albeit by wading through snow-ridden nastiness.

But Greyprick was like them old princesses—don’t wanna open their own car doors. Someone else’s picking up the slack. And this time, that someone else was me.

Not the worst candidate: I got perfect IQ, impeccable timing (I can even stop time), can move faster than light, reflexes probably in the negative milliseconds, could win Mr. Olympia if all I showed ‘em was my pinky toe.

So I quickly levelled the playing field, as they say in those footie games I attend ‘bout once a week, every second week if I’m working particularly hard at my full time job of trying to kill myself.

Levelled the playing field how, you ask?

Well, by elevating myself to the same place as Greyprick. Which meant leaping about fifty feet into the air (nothing for me) and perfectly landing on both feet with the grace of a gymnast.

I meowed back to Greyprick: “Now we’re on the same station, ain’t we?—

Greyprick’s look of utter surprise at my coherent meowing was priceless.

—“So how d’you like it now, huh? Bloody Grey—”

“Ya gonna get me down or what?”

Greypick, it appeared, wasn’t messing about with her demands for special treatment. Which was all the well, because I didn’t really wish to waste time talking to such an arrogant…well, prick. Felines are cute and all, but once you understand what they’re saying, that feeling essentially disappears.

“Here’s the plan,” I told him, tugging my beige overcoat tighter around my body—London’s weather’s piss poor at the best of times, but in this snow it’s terribly cold. “I’m going to fall head first whilst holding you in my arms, that’s what. Then stop time, let you down nice and gently, start time again whilst crashing into the ground somewhere without too much snow, and then I’ll die from the momentum.”

Help an entitled cat whilst dashing my own life across concrete—perfect end to it all, ain’t it?

Greypick just stared at me with beady orange eyes that looked oddly like rotten halloween pumpkins with vertical slits down the middle. More of a death stare than anything else, to be honest.

Heck, I wished it was a death stare. Would put me out of the misery of having to chat to this soddy old feline.

“You’re going to what?” was Greyprick’s response, growling at me with claws bared. “Then I’ma die as well, blitherin’ idiot you. Stopping time—you crazy or summat? Ya got summat in that head of yours, or issit just brawns and no brains?”

I really couldn’t be bothered for this. After three hundred years, you rarely are for anything. So I gave Greyprick an ultimatum: “You either listen and follow me plan, or I’ll let you stay here forever. I’m sure there’s some fish here for you to eat, eh.”

We both glanced around the roof. The wind blew about lonely bits of dirt across a barren, scratched concrete ground covered in bits of snow. There was a crisp rapper on the far side though, embedded in a halo of white, almost divine. Though I doubted it had any fish inside, or cat treats.

Greyprick gave me the laziest stare I’d ever seen. “Definitely all brawns and no brains,” she meowed. “Just like dogs.”

“I promise nothing will happen,” I told him. “But I wanta die soon as I can—so hurry up and get in me arms, you old dog.”

Greyprick growled again, probably because I referred to her by her mortal enemy, but boredom must’ve been haggling the cat, because she quickly jumped into my arms and let me cradle her in the crook of my elbow. Soft fur that I could probably sink my hands into for miles, coloured like rolling clouds across London’s skyline just before patters of rain fell, and Greyprick purred like I was her owner.

Guess cats claimed territory no matter where it was.

And Greyprick, being the prick that she was, probably thought the world was her oyster.

To eat, that was.

“You gonna do this or what?” Greyprick meowed. “Stopping time, eh—I’ll watch’n’believe it when I see the damn thing…bastard.”

She just couldn’t resist an extra jab at my expense, could she?

I was starting to either hate Greyprick, or love her. And I didn’t know which side I’d fall on. Didn’t mean Greyprick wasn’t a prick, though.

There was just one little tidbit bothering me.

“Why’re you up here in the first place?” I asked. “Issa normal thing for cats to climb up places, but not on the roof of somethin’ fifty foot tall.”

Greyprick ignored my question at first, deciding to wholeheartedly give me a turn of her cheek and no more. But, after three hundred years, curiosity’s perhaps the only thing someone can hold onto in times of insanity. So I waited, waited, waited…

“Fine, I’ll tell ya, goddamnit,” Greyprick finally meowed. Still barking orders, however—“Take me to that ledge n’I’ll do better—I’ll show ya.”

With her paw, Greyprick pointed to the far side of the roof, where a layer of snow had gathered on a small ledge like spectators to the circus act that was meself and Greyprick. Cold snow tickled my brown cowboy boots (bought from actual cowboys in America, mind you) with a comforting yet chilling touch as I strode over there. Greyprick just leaned into my overcoat, likely glad for the warmth, and her soft fur caused this strange bubbly feeling in me chest that, for the life o’ me, I ain’t ever felt before.

Smell of fresh air imprinting itself in me nostrils like a cat’s paw, I glanced over the ledge and realised what Greyprick had been talking about. She’d leapt up a few bits of snow-covered windowsills to get to the roof, but—

“My bloody paws’re colder than that ice down there. It’s either you get me down—and you will—or I freeze t’death hopping back to the ground.”

“Ain’t snow meant to be a nice thing?” I asked. “Yeah issa little cold, but nothing a strong cat like you can’t handle.”

Greyprick just growled, as was customary with her I was now realising. “Hate the snow. Hate it more than them dogs prowling ‘round.”

I mean, I’ve been in blizzards having a picnic before, so perhaps I ain’t the best to talk about this stuff. But still, from crazy cold snow seasons back in the 1800s, now things’re much nicer. Snow’s like an old friend coming back to say hi and twist your ears a little. Not a grim reaper ready to stick an ice pick through your chest.

(Already tried the ice pick trick, didn’t work sadly. Just melted upon contacting me, like I was a celebrity and it was a diehard fan. Wish I was a diehard fan, minus the fan part.)

“You hate the snow, don’tcha?” I meowed to Greyprick. “Hate everything ‘bout it, right?”

“Don’t ask me dumb questions. I ain’t gonna answer ‘em.”

Greyprick turned in my elbow and glared up at me. Orange eyes flaring like bits of fire were stuck between them like cavities. Yet, in that glare, there was something else I ain’t seen in a long time. Not in meself when I looked in the mirror or a bit of broken glass I used to smash my face in. And not in those people walking the streets of London, trying and struggling to survive despite all the wealth on display ‘round them that never gets ‘round to them.

I saw a sense of hope.

And that hope reminded me of another scene. One from me childhood, some two hundred plus years ago. Bad times, them years. But a ray of light shone through those dark memories, and that was what my mind latched onto.

I leaned my head down, whispered a quick couple’a words to Greyprick.

“You ready?”

She looked at me, glare still in full force. “Oi, ready for what you—”

I zipped out the country before I could hear what came next.

***

Wales was a beautiful place back then, that's for damn sure. Still is now, thinking ‘bout it. Us Londoners grew up ‘round a grimy River Thames, sewer smells lingering like the depression of everyone on the East side, streets filled with thrown out and trodden over rubbish, and ghettos where the immigrants and their kids like meself all piled up due to lack of space.

Well, that’s a lie. One we found out plenty clear and plenty quickly. There was plenty o’ space available. It just wasn’t our space. And we ain’t belong there.

Place like Wales represented freedom from being trapped in confines we ain’t chosen. Freedom from having no choice where we lived, where we spent our time (even though I can stop time, and even though I live forever, I still value the thing). Freedom from all those times we got rotten vegetables and slimy leftovers thrown at us merely from existing.

You grow up in a place like London where pollution stinks the grey clouds with a tar-like black—place like Wales’ll look like heaven to you. Only time I could breathe fresh air was a visit there with me father—and the freshest o’ breaths was on a mountain called Snowdon.

(All right, fine. It does have a random Welsh name, Yr Wyddfa, but I ain’t Welsh so I ain’t gonna butcher it here.)

Now it don’t snow in Snowdon all the time, despite what the name suggests, but thankfully it was winter when I went with me old man. And it was a similar teeming winter when I dashed there, Greyprick in the crook of my arm, faster than the speed of light.

‘Course, Greyprick’s fur would’ve got ripped off due to the speed, but I made sure to shield her from the elements. Maybe she felt a little cold from the rushing wind, just a tad shiver perhaps, but otherwise completely fine.

We arrived at the spot I’d had in mind within a second. And before I could relive my surroundings and let them sink over me, Greyprick hopped out me arm and stood her ground on a mound of rock, then growled up at me, claws bared, meowing like a crazed lunatic.

“Oi, bastard, down here. Lookie down here. Thought you were takin’ me back to the ground—not this random place. Iss’why ya can’t trust these damn strangers all the time, tryin’ to pet me for no reason. Thought you’s one of the good ones, too, bloody…b-bloody bas—”

“Yeah, yeah I’m a bastard.” I kissed my teeth at the grey ball of fur. “Said it like a thousand times already. Look, I’ll take you back, don’t worry. Just wanted t’show you this first. So look around, you absolute…”

I was about to throw an insult right back at her, but my eyes rose to face the scene before me, and those words died in my throat as if they sought death with as much fervour as I did. We were in a cave dug into the side of the mountain where elements ain’t able to reach, and the rock ceiling over us felt like a halo sealing this divine scene.

Out there, for miles and miles and miles, were blankets of snow. And not those blankets that wear and tear after a couple uses. Nah, these were luxury blankets of snow, settling like silk on fields and old, unused roads and even the tops of distant skyscrapers. Sparkling white in the swathes of light. Beautiful, that—utterly beautiful, just like it’d been two hundred years before, where me late father stood where Greyprick stood.

And—swear to God—it felt like the ghost of me father was right there, smiling at me. Strange feeling—gave me the shivers, let me tell you—but I knew I couldn’t let the moment pass.

I plopped meself down beside Greyprick, and the rock comforted me like it was made of Greyprick’s fur. Wordlessly, like some force of the universe ain’t no one know about forced the hand of fate, Greyprick settled next to me and nuzzled her head into the side of my overcoat.

I could hear a lovingly whispered, “Bastard,” in the mix too, but I chose to ignore it.

Both looked up. And the sun was like a medallion in the sky (medal for me or Greyprick I ain’t know), bursting with light through clouds willing to let it pass. Orange light, kinda like them eyes Greyprick has, spreading out like it wanted to bless the world as much as the damn world nowadays needed blessin’.

Here, the sun and clouds and sky and fields and the fresh crisp air and bloody nature—all got along like old mates, cafe buddies, chummiest of chums. And standing there, Greyprick staring along with me just as breathless as I was—felt like nature had invited us along to join the club.

“You still hate the snow?” I asked Greyprick.

At first, she gave a low growl which basically meant back off or I’ll scratch you. And, indeed, her claws were brandished, threatening me with all sorts that I didn’t wanna think ‘bout. Not that I would die…but still.

Most of all, Greyprick didn’t answer me.

But when you’ve lived for three hundred years, one thing you got is patience. A whole field full of snow of it. So I waited, waited, waited…

“Don’t hate it, don’t like it either,” Greyprick finally relented, claws retracting. “And thas’as far as I’m gonna go, so don’t push ya luck, son.”

“From bastard to son? So that would make you my…”

Greyprick huffed, but otherwise remained silent. Wind brushed against my hand—despite the winter and gently falling snowflakes, the wind was warm, and slowly shifted my hand from soft rock to Greyprick’s fur. And I began rubbing my palm and fingers over her back, with a familiar ease, as if I’d been doing it me whole life.

And despite every rational thought telling her not to—and trust me, I know how stubborn that damn feline can be—Greyprick purred at the touch.

I watched the orange lances o’ light dance across untouched snow, then turned me head to Greyprick, who was still softly purring as I rubbed her back. “See, all you had t’do was see snow in a new light,” I meowed. “Knew you’d love it, I did. Don’t be so stuck in your old ways, you stubborn old dog you.”

“Stop calling me that,” Greyprick said, leaping away from my hand. I missed her soft fur in a heartbeat. “And ya got some nerve, son, saying summat like that. Ain’t you the same guy who wanted t’kill himself like five minutes ago?”

Well, he wasn’t wrong on that front. Not wrong at all.

“So maybe you’re the one that’s gotta see the light, not me,” Greyprick said. “Can’t go dyin’ on me now, can ya?”

A part of me registered that what Greypick said meant she wanted me t’look after her from now on. Or more like she’d look after me, knowing how prideful that damn cat was. She might be grey and a prick—but she got the biggest heart of anyone I know.

I didn’t say nothing for a while, then randomly, like the world was waiting for me or summat, I breathed in the freshest breath of air I’d ever breathed. Filled me up proper, right down to the ridiculous lung capacity I got, and I could sense that same feeling I got before at the fire station roof, the one I seen in Greyprick’s eyes.

A sense of hope.

But this time, I was the one that breathed it in. That hope was in me—and it was something I ain’t felt since that day with my father, sitting right here with him by my side, shoulder touching shoulder, both staring out at the layers of white spreading out in all directions, staring at a world that weren’t tainted with all the rubbish that came after he passed on.

“Can ya really stop time, though?”

“Well, it ain’t exactly stopping,” I meowed back, mind jerking into the present. “More like I can release some type’a energy that makes things around me move hella slowly. Then I can choose things I want t’move normally. Technically ain’t stopping time—more like making it move slower than BBQ sauce in Antarctica.”

“I still don’t believe ya,” Greyprick said. “Ya gotta show me…watch’n’believe and all that.”

I sighed, a dramatic sigh, then flicked my fingers for—yep, you guessed it—dramatic effect. Instantly, the snowfall appeared to cease, flakes frozen. Like life was a movie that had just been paused. And everything about the majestic scene and its beauty and (even) its sense of hope preserved itself as Greyprick and me wordlessly drank it all in.

And quenched our thirsts and filled ourselves up well and good.

“Not bad for a bastard,” Greyprick meowed.

I chuckled—for perhaps the first time in forever. “Sorry I disappointed you, Dad,” I joked.

And though I wished to die after three hundred years of living—that moment…that moment in time and that damn cat gave me summat worth living for.

JazakAllahu Khayran for reading!

Feel free to read any of my other free short stories, or click the all fiction tab above for info on where to find my longer works.