In Articulo Mortis

by Jamey Toner

Smoky room; three men dead in chairs. The fourth sits quietly, gripping the armrests, staring up at the fifth man in the room. That man is standing, and he has a gun. It’s pointed at the man in the chair.

The man with the gun says, “Now. I know that was a bit of a shock, but you’ve seen murders before. Seen them and done them, yes? So take a moment to collect yourself. Those three were politicians, which means a real gangster like you was the most honest man in the room.”

The man in the chair takes a deep breath in. He holds it for a moment, then lets it out. “Okay. What do you want from me?”

“I only want a moment of your time. Well, no—that’s not quite true. I want you to look at my face.”

“I’m lookin’.”

“Can you see in my face that I’m not a liar?”

“Yeah. I think so.”

“Then believe this: we’re going to talk, you and I, for just a minute or two. And when we’re done, I’m going to shoot you through the head like I shot the others. There’s nothing you can say or do to stop me, and no one is coming to help. You’re a dead man. Do you believe me?”

The man in the chair sits quietly. His face had fear and anger in it, but they seem to fade away. After a few moments, he says, “Yes.”

“Good. As I said, I think you’re capable of honesty. I think you must lie to yourself all the time just to get through the day—to look into the mirror in the morning, to drift away to sleep at night. But that’s done now. Do you know any Latin?”

“A little. I was an altar boy.”

“So was I,” says the man with the gun. “When a patient’s at the point of death, the doctors say he’s in articulo mortis. And it’s just a silly pun, but it reminds me of the word ‘articulate.’ Some people become very articulate when they’re about to die. You’ve probably noticed that yourself.”

The man in the chair nods.

“But when you’re sick in a hospital bed, full of pain and drugs and weariness, it’s hard to see things clearly. I’m going to give you a gift that few men get: the chance at a last confession.”

The man in the chair shakes his head. “There’s too much. I wouldn’t know where to start.”

“There must be someone in your life who never let you down. Some coach or teacher, some priest or cop or friend or cousin—someone you could always look up to, who never lost your respect. Can you think of someone like that?”

“. . . Yeah. Yeah, I can.”

“If they could see you now, where you ended up in your life—what would you say to them?”

The man in the chair closes his eyes. “I’m sorry,” he says, almost too softly to hear. “I’m sorry.”

The gunshot is shockingly loud. The silence after is louder still.

The man in the chair looks over at the hole in the wall, just to the left of his head. He looks up at the man with the gun. He is too stunned to speak, but the question is there in his face.

“I don’t know,” the man with the gun admits. “I really did plan to kill you. I guess it’s just not your time.”

“Guess not.”

The man lowers his gun and walks to the open door. “You know,” he says, “whatever you’ve done wrong—whatever you’ve failed to do—you’re still alive. And you’ve still got today.” Then he’s gone.

The man in the chair takes off the helmet, and the simulation ends. Outside his window, morning birds chirp out their song. “Holy shit,” he says. “From now on, I’m just gonna stick with coffee.”

Jamey Toner is the author of The Kai, the true account of a young man finding faith through the martial arts, and the co-author of Brides of Christ, a children's book from the Benedictines of Mary, Queen of Apostles. Toner lives and works in Massachusetts with his beautiful wife, three lovely children, and a fluctuating number of chickens.