A Moment's Last Count

The spreadsheet numbers swam, blurring slightly at the edges. Arthur blinked hard, rubbing the bridge of his nose with a forefinger that felt oddly clumsy. Another late night. Another Friday sacrificed to the tyranny of quarterly reports. He pushed himself back from the desk, the worn leather of his office chair groaning in protest, a familiar complaint.

A peculiar ache settled in his chest. Not sharp, not yet. More like a heavy hand pressed against his sternum, a deep, unsettling pressure. Indigestion, probably. That dodgy curry from lunch. He’d told himself not to get the extra naan bread. Idiot.

He shifted, trying to ease the sensation, rolling his shoulders, stretching his neck. The feeling didn't dissipate. Instead, it tightened, like a knot pulled taut. A prickle of unease, cold and unwelcome, began to weave itself through his fatigue. He reached for the half-empty mug of lukewarm tea beside his keyboard, his fingers brushing against the faint, gritty residue of sugar on the ceramic.

The tea tasted bitter, stale. He grimaced, setting it down with a soft clatter that sounded too loud in the quiet room. The pressure escalated. Now it felt like a fist, clenching, squeezing the air from his lungs. A sudden, cold sweat bloomed on his forehead, tracing a clammy path to his temple.

No. This wasn’t indigestion. This was… something else. Something colder, sharper, far more insistent. His vision tunnelled slightly, the edges of the room dimming, the glowing monitor a single, impossible sun. His breath hitched, a ragged, desperate sound in his own ears.

He needed to stand. To move. To shake this off. He pushed against the desk, his knees knocking against the solid oak with an audible thud. His legs felt like wet rope. A jolt, a searing line of fire, shot down his left arm, making his hand clench involuntarily. His jaw ached, a dull throb that resonated deep in his teeth.

Panic, raw and cold, clawed its way up his throat. He stumbled forward, knocking over the stack of paper beside the monitor. White sheets scattered across the dusty carpet like startled birds. He didn’t care. He just needed… something. His phone. On the table, by the armchair. Just a few steps. God, just a few steps.

He tried to speak, to call out, but only a dry, rattling gasp escaped. His throat felt like sandpaper. The cold sweat turned to a deluge, soaking the collar of his shirt. Each breath was a Herculean effort, a shallow, desperate suck of air that only seemed to burn.

His feet tangled. A sickening lurch, a sudden plunge. The floor rushed up to meet him. Not gently. Hard. His shoulder hit first, then the side of his head, sending a dull throb through his skull that, for a bizarre second, eclipsed the crushing agony in his chest. He lay there, sprawled awkwardly between the desk and the armchair, a defeated puppet with tangled strings.

The old rug, thin and scratchy against his cheek, smelled faintly of stale coffee and something metallic he couldn’t place. A distant memory – his mother, scolding him for tracking mud on the carpet, so long ago. The memory was sharp, vivid, but it fractured almost immediately, pulled apart by the relentless, consuming pain.

His phone. It was just there. Inches away. He could see its dark, silent screen, reflecting the desk lamp’s glow like a distant, unreachable star. He stretched out a hand, his fingers twitching, scraping against the rough weave of the rug. They were so heavy. So unresponsive. His arm felt like it belonged to someone else, disconnected, a dead weight.

The room began to spin, a slow, sickening carousel. The faint whirring of the desktop computer became a roar, then faded to a whisper. He squeezed his eyes shut, but the darkness behind his lids was no less terrifying. Flashes. His daughter, laughing, her hair like spun sunlight. A hot summer’s day, the smell of freshly cut grass. A forgotten argument with his wife, the bitter taste of unspoken words. Regret, a wave of it, colder even than the sweat on his skin.

He opened his eyes again. The dust motes still danced, oblivious. The loose window pane still whistled. Life, utterly indifferent, continued its rhythm. He thought of the half-finished crossword puzzle on the kitchen table. The novel he'd started, abandoned on his bedside locker. The bills still waiting to be paid. The email he hadn’t replied to.

Everything felt unfinished. Untidy. And now, this… this abrupt, unwelcome end. He tried to articulate a thought, a final plea, a quiet acceptance. But the words were gone, dissolved in the surging tide of blackness. His chest convulsed, a final, desperate flutter. A long, shuddering sigh escaped his lips, thin and weak.

His vision blurred again, this time permanently. The colours of the room bled into each other, then faded to a single, indistinct grey. The sharp edges of the desk, the soft curve of the armchair, his own outstretched hand – all became indistinct smudges against the encroaching dark. He could still hear the faint, distant hum of the refrigerator, a final, tenacious thread connecting him to the world.

Then even that faded, replaced by a profound, echoing silence. The cold spread, seeping into his bones, extinguishing the last embers of warmth. He felt himself floating, drifting, a feather caught in an unseen current, carried away from the familiar gravity of his life.

His fingers, which had been so close to his phone, finally went limp, scraping a last, faint trail in the dust on the rug. The silence in the study deepened, broken only by the persistent whistle of the winter wind and the steady, indifferent hum of the old refrigerator, waiting for a door that would not open.