An Exercise in Dark Humour

Insouciant. I don’t know about you, but I have always liked the sound of this particular word. There is certain quality about the word that gives me the distinct impression of it being French. Not that I am familiar with the language. Not a chance. Maybe it’s just the way it makes the lips stretch outwards that appeals to me. Anyways, in my opinion, it is a word which ought to be used more often in everyday conversations. I, for one, loved incorporating it my communications, both written and oral, at the slightest of opportunities. It having transpired, however, that not many are aware of the meanings and connotations of the word, I had to sacrifice my grammatical excesses at the altar of simplicity.

So when the man sprawled out on the floor before me cried out, “Insouciant!”, you can scarcely blame me for being a little surprised. Truth be told, I was a little startled because he hadn’t spoken to me in over fifteen minutes and seeing as I was trapped in a room with him, with no other means to amuse myself, his taciturn manner came across as rather rude. But then one must make allowances for the fact that he was nursing a gun shot wound to the lower abdomen and probably had a precious few minutes to live. Even so, I expected a little more spunk.

See, the thing is that I am not one to start conversations. So while he sulked and brooded over the blood oozing out of his perforated belly, I decided to give him the silent treatment. And I gave it to him in large helpings. Eventually, I knew, that someone had to fold, and being the one who could still stand on his feet, I was fairly sanguine about my prospects in this little duel.

“Insouciant !”,he cried out again with that distant look in his eyes which is so characteristic of people nursing a gun shot wound to the abdomen. I found it poetic that my favourite word, which had fallen into desuetude, was being vouched for with such ferocity by a dying man. Maybe, long before he fell into the sordid ways that eventually led to him being shot in the abdomen, he was like any other kid who had committed word lists to memory to get admitted into colleges. Things probably didn’t work out, and now, as fate would have it, the chemical reactions in the dying brain were causing him to randomly spew out words he had forgotten when it mattered most. Or maybe it was because I was painting, at this instant, in shades of blood red, my interpretation of human bondage using a nearby twig that elegantly doubled as a paint brush. Hard to say, these things.

Ordinarily, I would have considered this to be the blood stained olive branch extended by him for want of a truce. However, the tone that he employed was rich with the insinuation that I was responsible for the position of inconvenience that he found himself in. It wasn’t as if I had drilled those bullets into him and I would definitely not take such slander lying down. Actually, technically, he was lying down. But, I suppose you get my point.

I had turned my back on him and held my plans of socialising with my fellow prisoner in abeyance until he adopted a more agreeable stance. Also, my profession had afforded me a good deal of time to study gun shot victims at close quarters and I could tell that the current subject had ,at best, another ten minutes of association with the earthly. I debated the merits of providing him with a rather bleak character appraisal when he was well into the final ten minutes of his life, most of which he would spend clutching his abdomen and accuse me of being an “insouciant”, insensitive prick. Hardly seemed worth the trouble, actually.

The little room where I was held captive was by now, with no insignificant assistance from my fellow prisoner, filled with the nauseating stench of blood and sweat. The risk of forced confinement was a part of my job description. I had always hoped, though, that those who inflicted it would have the professional courtesy to respect my privacy. Solitary confinement is the way to go, I say. Stuffing me in with another dying thug was a move calculated to remind me of the fate that awaits me. And, in my field of work, one wants as little of that as possible. This man had it coming and so did I.

The silence in the room was punctuated only by the periodic grunts and moans of my wounded adversary. I had sufficient reason to exact revenge from this man and had he not being dying so fast, I am not sure I would not have facilitated the process. Although I could appreciate the pain he was in, for I had been shot at an earlier occasion myself, I saw no reason not to make his exit unceremonious. Kick them when they are down, I say.

The colour had drained from his face and his features were contorted with the white hot pain that he was going through. The tip of his ears convulsed involuntarily.

“Chin up, buddy! What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. Even if we assume that it will kill you there is a chance that the benefit will carry forward the next time you are born. Don’t mind me saying, but you were always a bit of a wimp.” I said.

Apparently my facetious jibe did not go down too well with him for he continued to stare expressionlessly into my eyes. He was sweating profusely and the few patches of his shirt that weren’t stained red were damp with sweat.

“Kill me”, he muttered using the remnants of his life force, hoping to end the suffering.

“Too easy. Maybe someday when you are more game for a fight,” I quipped.

Almost instantly he let out a guttural roar of agony and started urinating uncontrollably into his pants.The stench was now unbearable. I picked up an old newspaper from the floor and pressed my nose against it as hard as I could without suffocating myself.

“ Help me ..please”, he shrieked in agony. He was into the final despairing moments.
Funny thing, this humanity is. Even the most immoral of men get morally outraged when denied a piece of it in their moment of desperation.

“I’d love to buddy”, I said, “but I’m in bit of a fix myself. But why don’t you just wait? They say time is a great healer. If it works, you get to live. If you don’t, we learn something new.”

I took out the pen knife that I had been hiding inside my left shoe. My escape plan hinged on its effective usage. A sudden stab to the eye followed by a manoeuvre to rid the guard of his gun ought to do the trick. But for now, I needed some quiet to think my escape through.

“See this? If you promise to stop bothering me, I can lend it to you for a while. Try not to leave too much of a mess. Consider it my good deed for the day.”

I have never prided myself on my bedside manners and it was beyond me to hold his hand while he died. Anyways, I doubt I would have got much of a grip considering how bloody they were. Handing him the pen knife, I turned around to give the man the dignity in death that he denied others in life. The sounds that I heard over the next couple of minutes painted a story of desperate suicide.

When I turned around, nothing could have prepared me for what I saw. There was no trace of a gruesome slit in the throat or a gaping cavity in the chest. He hadn’t used the pen knife. He had swallowed it. He was looking straight at me with the serenity of man who was about to rest in peace. And then with a singularly despicable smile he coughed out his final words.

“Insouciant bastard…”

Kick them when they are down, I say.