If you want to die like Emily

Kalsavina short stories

If you want to die like Emily

written by Kalsavina

translated by ChatGPT * Kalsavina

1

While reading the biography of Emily Brontë included in a very old collection of world literature, I remember coming across the phrase, "Emily, calmly embracing death." At that time, I had no idea what it meant to "calmly embrace death," and I couldn't help but be curious about how she died.

Later, I learned that Emily Brontë had sat somewhat hunched over a table, chin resting on one hand, as if lost in thought, and quietly breathed her last. In other words, her calm demeanor was an expression referring to her posture at the moment of facing death.

It was probably a very peaceful death.

I imagine it that way.

And although I have no plans to commit suicide, lately I find myself somewhat envious of her death, without any apparent reason, as I ponder various thoughts about death. People often say you have to go through the corridor of death.

If that's the case, if you have to face death at least once, can one not die like Emily?

So peacefully, not lying down but sitting, quietly lost in thought, or perhaps dreaming, or drifting into the swamp of another world in a daze. The first step of a long journey where a shining spirit, an intelligent soul, cannot return, can be so calm beyond envy, even to the point of being magnificent.

But should I really die like that when I die?

I stopped writing here, turned off the word processor, and closed the laptop.

A few words expressing my sincere feelings... the writing did not continue. It couldn't.

Suddenly, John Cheever came to mind. The short story writer someone deeply admired. If it were him, how would he have concluded this writing?

Anyway, my desire to die like Emily is a work in progress. And in some way, I am in a situation where I have to write a short story on this topic.

However, my desire to die like Emily is absurdly interfering with the progress of this short piece. Amazingly, this desire is evolving into a sense of obligation to die "like Emily." If someone tells me a way to die like Emily, I might even sell my soul to the devil for that. I don't intend to think too much about the fate of the soul after leaving the body.

It's like standing in front of a river to cross and not thinking about the next river to cross immediately.

2

So, the idea that came to mind was not to sell the soul to the celestial devil but to the earthly devil. The earthly devil, in this case, was none other than a loan shark and gangster known by the nickname 'Cobain.(코베인)'(it means "The nose is cut." by Korean and also Kurt Cobain of Nirvana) Thirty years ago, he couldn't repay the debts of a malicious loan shark and had his nose cut off. Since then, he had been called Cobain instead of his name. Now, he had become a devil surpassing the loan shark who had cut his nose.

Under the control of Cobain, I underwent excruciating torture.

When I regained consciousness, I found myself slumped over a table, sitting in a chair as if I had collapsed. Without the need for bindings, I had no strength to move my hands and feet. Before me, Cobain's grotesque face, with watermelon-sized nostrils beneath the traces of his nose, stared at me with a perplexed expression.

"Is that all a wish is worth?"

"What?"

"I asked earlier. The last wish before dying, remember?"

"Oh..."

I remembered the question, but I couldn't recall my response.

"Who the hell is Emily Lee?"

"What?"

"Why does Emily Lee want to die like that? What kind of woman is she to want to die like that?"

In my bewildered state, I apparently gave such an answer. Cobain once again brought his watermelon-sized nostrils, shaped like pumpkin seeds, close to my face.

"Come on, tell me. About your wish earlier."

I mumbled incoherently about Emily Bronte. About 'calmly dying' Emily, the female writer who peacefully breathed her last with her chin resting on the table, like Buddha entering nirvana.

"You're a man, aren't you?"

"Yes."

"But you want to die like a woman? There are some weird wishes out there."

After pondering for a moment, he began to sway within the vast underground space where he had confined me. I fainted again. When I woke up, Cobain, along with his henchmen, was desperately considering ways to fulfill my last wish.

"So, if we just leave him sitting there, he 'll die on his own, right?"

"We have to make him die. Just sitting there won't do anything."

"How do we do that?"

"What if we inject a lethal poison..."

"Hmm."

"But it will be agonizing. Alternatively, we could discreetly sever an artery."

"That's fine too."

"But it will be messy. Not very elegant."

"Sit him down and strangle from behind then."

"That won't make much difference. Just tie him up, withhold food and water for three days, and he might die."

"Can he stay quiet for three days? Besides, tying up wasn't part of the deal."

Cobain seemed captivated by a desperate desire to properly implement the 'elegant and peaceful' Emily-style death. However, that desire shattered into pieces when his subordinate reminded him of the essence of the dilemma.

"But, what about the money?"

"Right, my money!"

Returning forcefully to reality from the world of elegant death, he shouted angrily.

"You, bastard. You were going to die without even paying my money? How audacious..."

3

When I came to my senses again, I was lying in the hospital, and my close friend and masseur, who was standing by, had a look on his face as if to say, "Are there such crazies in the world?" He was earnestly scrutinizing me.

"Cobain saved me?"

"Of course. Couldn't find anywhere else to borrow money, so did you borrow from someone like Cobain?"

The masseur pressed on my nose with his hand. It was intact but I couldn't help it throbbing.

"Why did he save me?"

"Well, why not? He didn't save you so you could think about taking money after you're dead. He saved you so you could live and repay the debt like a miser."

Exactly. That's why, at this very moment, I'm agonizing over not being able to write about how to die like Emily, who died peacefully at the table. The operator of some portal site made a fantastic proposal that if I write about it, he would repay the money borrowed from Cobain in a somewhat joking manner.  But now, the focus of my agony is not about not being able to write about the method of dying like Emily, but about adapting to the reality that I cannot die like Emily.

It seems that this is not something to contemplate alone, so it's best to call a trustworthy person for discussion. Fortunately, I don't have many friends, but I know a few who would seriously discuss such matters. I chose the most appropriate one among them. He was a friend living in the neighborhood, a moneylender (also a distant relative of Cobain).

"Heart failure!"

The pharmacist suggested the most plausible and common sign when he heard about Emily's death.

"But how do you cause that heart failure?"

The pharmacist couldn't answer my question. Instead, another plausible way was suggested.

"Or maybe electric shock?"

Emily Brontë wasn't from the age of electrical energy.

"Or is it just that a ghost came and took her away?"

I restrained the urge to cover the pharmacist's mouth with my hand, cutting off his words.

"Clear everything and just think about the method. Yes, cardiac arrest, that's quite convincing. But how can cardiac arrest happen when sitting quietly in a chair?"

"After consuming about 2 liters of very strong coffee without taking a breath, wouldn't the probability increase based on the power of caffeine?"

"What's the probability then?"

"I don't know."

At this point, my pharmacist friend subtly changed the topic.

"But why do you want to die so desperately? Is it for a comfortable death?"

There is that reason, but it's not the only reason. However, I couldn't explain to anyone the reason for longing to die like Emily. Not to Cobain, not to the masseuse, and not to the pharmacist.

"Hey, you're still too young to die. It's not the time to think about death. And of course, dealing with the Cobain situation is a bit troublesome now, but you can easily resolve a debt owed to Cobain with the help of people around you. The operator of that portal site even said he would give money if someone writes about how to die like Emily."

These friends don't understand the essence of the situation.

So, in the end, thinking it was the last time, I found a woman. She was a college student I had known for a long time, and surprisingly, she readily agreed to my request to sleep together. At least, being a 'woman' like Emily, she might find a different subtle solution than men. As soon as we finished having sex, with a beleaguered feeling I asked if she knew 'how to die like Emily.' She thought for a moment and replied listlessly.

"I don't know."

In a moment of trying to figure out how to quickly put on her clothes and drive her out, she also muttered in a somewhat hesitant tone.

"Emily Brontë was a famous writer, right?"

"Yes, so?"

"Maybe because she was a writer, she could die like that? Well, it's not certain, but, for now, it seems like the order is to become a writer like Emily if you want to die like Emily."

Scientifically, it was not a logical answer at all, but emotionally, it was a response that seemed somehow acceptable. As a token of gratitude for a plausible answer, I laid her on the bed once again.

4

The problem came next.

I wasn't Emily. I didn't have a troubled older brother, delicate sisters, or desolate Yorkshire moors. But, above all, I lacked "literary talent."

Perhaps that's where I didn't qualify to die like Emily.

In fact, maintaining the posture of sitting in a chair with a chin resting on my hands is not a usual way to die. Is it normal for someone to maintain that tension throughout their entire body until the moment of death with ordinary mental strength?

While I was grappling with this, a journalist came. The journalist came because he was intrigued by the peculiar existence of a "writer who wants to die like Emily Brontë." Naturally, with the journalist's arrival, I couldn't avoid an interview. Of course, avoiding the small microphone placed in front of me was also unavoidable.

"So, you're researching how to die 'calmly' like Emily?"

The journalist threw the question first, and as I pondered my response, repeatedly using interjections like "uh," "um," I heard a different voice from the microphone embedded in my chest.

―If you can really die like that, are you okay with dying right now, kid?

I focused all my attention on my hearing, receiving the words conveying that to me.

"No."

"Uh, (confused and awkward) that's not it?"

"I'm not really conducting research. It's just that when the time comes to die, no matter what happens, I want to die that way, that's all."

"I see. When do you think that time will be?"

"Well, I can't know that either."

―You, of course, have no idea, but I know when you should die. But you won't be able to die like that.

“Why, out of all peaceful deaths, do you want to die like Emily Brontë, who neither waits for death nor prepares for it? Can you tell us the reason?”

The unfamiliar voice from the microphone bothered me, but I decided not to pay much attention and did my best to respond.

“She did not wait for death, nor did she prepare for it. She only thought she would be aware of the fact that death would come. Just knowing, she would have just known. However, she consistently remained unresponsive. She neither resisted nor waited. She did not discuss death with anyone. However, she vaguely wondered about it. If death were to come, how would it come? And at the moment she asked herself, if she had already crossed the threshold of death, could there be a more timely and exquisite moment than that?”

Thinking that this would be a satisfactory answer, he responded with a contented feeling. However, once again, an unidentified voice echoed from the microphone.

-Damn it, if you want to die like Emily, then become Emily! Where is a more perfect way?

Yes, if you want to die like Emily, the most perfect way is to become Emily... The argument had some persuasiveness. However, it's not about 'dying like Emily' but rather 'dying as Emily.'

But I didn't know how to become Emily.

Anyway, after jotting down various contents, I revised a short story manuscript of about one page and submitted it to the operator of the portal site as promised.

As it was not a popular content, sensational reactions were not expected. Nevertheless, the operator deposited the promised money, and thankfully, personally offered to find a way for me to die calmly and 'beautifully' like Emily. I wanted to ask him to exclude the adjective 'beautiful,' but anyway, it was a grateful suggestion, so I decided to accept it without saying anything.

About two weeks later, the hypnotist arrived.

Introduced by the operator, he said he would hypnotize me to make me into the dying Emily just before death. Honestly, I didn't believe in hypnosis, but at the moment, I had no reason to refuse his offer because I felt like grasping at straws.

I had perfectly memorized certain passages from some decisive books that became the catalyst for my desire to die like Emily. I wrote down those passages for the hypnotist, and he read them aloud.

Just that was enough for me to easily become Emily. Indeed, the skill of the hypnotist introduced by the operator was perfect.

5

So, becoming Emily;

The distinction between dreams and reality is not clear. When I woke up this morning, unlike other days, about half of my consciousness still lingered in the dream. Therefore, my consciousness is not completely free from the dream I had last night. A river made of sand, smoothly flowing like a net over a deserted wasteland without a speck of dust – that is the river made of sand. Far along the river, two shadows are slowly walking, trying to disappear beyond the horizon. It is not difficult to recognize who they are.

Headache!

I, who once held a pen and wrote about the Yorkshire plain in ink, was tormented by a terrible headache. Inside my body, several cancerous tumors were growing here and there, but the medicine at the time could not detect the spread of cancer in my body.

There is only one way to overcome that terrible pain. Endure it.

The reason is one and only. Because there is no other way to endure that pain.

Fortunately, this morning, perhaps due to my consciousness not fully returning from the dream, my body is relatively free from pain. However, as always, when pain is about to come, I easily adopt the posture that I find most bearable and sit at the table.

Let's talk about those two shadows moving away from my sight again.

It's not difficult to recognize who they are. They are my younger sisters. One died of starvation early, and the other died of lung disease. My only older sister and the only younger sister just below me will follow me along the edge of the sand river after a while.

But now it's my turn.

I must not cross this river alone.

As pain seems to surge again, I hold my breath and try to breathe as evenly as possible. And I just wait for this terrible pain to pass.

When I return to reality again, I couldn't help but be grateful that I didn't have to pay the hypnotist. I shouted at him. This is not Emily's death!

"But," the hypnotist said to me.

"Whatever you imagine about her death, there is no way to prove it. Anyway, for you, the information about her death is just these few lines of text in this book, isn't it? Do you believe that this is the whole truth?"

6

Despairing in the face of a reality where I couldn't die like Emily, I sought out a bar, indiscriminately drank, and wailed loudly. My friends, who watched me, sighed deeply and had to comfort me while I cried. They were none other than a pharmacist friend and a massage therapist friend.

"Things in this world don't unravel as easily as we wish, my friend."

"Instead of thinking about dying gracefully, how about seriously contemplating how to live gracefully?"

At that moment, the door of the bar opened, and a priest holding a Bible entered. He truly exuded a very priest-like vibe. If there was one distinctive feature, it was that his eyes were slightly askew, and he had a very sorrowful-looking face, a man. With something delicate, fragile, and wise about him, he drew a knife, and everyone in the place, except me, got up and rushed out of the bar. He approached me alone, pointing the knife at me, but in my drunken state, I had no energy to escape or stand up.

"Father, why are you doing this?"

In my slurred voice, he asked my question, to which I unexpectedly replied.

"Haven't you wanted to die like Emily?"

"Yes, but this is quite different from how Emily died, isn't it?"

"So, die and embrace the Lord. The Lord will reveal the answer."

Just as I was about to ask if the Lord really knew the answer, a sudden thought occurred to me.

"If I die and embrace the Lord, at least I might be able to meet Emily Brontë in person. Going to her and asking directly could be a solution, right?"

"Yes."

With an incredibly serene and calm attitude, the priest answered me.

"But once I die, I can't die like Emily again, right?"

"You can be reborn. Reincarnate. All living beings undergo reincarnation according to the law of samsara."

"That's the doctrine of Buddhism; it's not the doctrine of Catholicism."

"It's okay. Whatever it is, isn't it? Anyway, I'm not a real priest. You probably realized that by now."

"Ah, yes."

Damn, in this situation, the only stupid response I could give was, 'Ah, yes.'

"If let's apply the doctrine of Catholicism."

Whether he was genuinely contemplating or not, the priest's expression was undeniably solemn and serious.

"The compassionate Lord will undoubtedly send you to heaven and arrange a meeting with Emily Brontë. From the one who has embraced the sublime death, please directly learn the secret. Then, when reincarnated as the Son of God, the Lamb of the Lord, in the next life, you will surely experience a beautiful and sublime death like Emily. "

"Thank you for your words, but..."

Rolling my tongue that was not cooperating well, I interjected.

"If I don't get reborn, will you take responsibility, Father?"

"The Lord will take responsibility."

"The Lord has never directly promised me that He would take responsibility for me."

The priest frowned for a moment. Clearly, he seemed perplexed.

At that moment, the door opened, and the pharmacist friend and the masseuse friend rushed in with the police. The priest, who had threatened me with a knife, was quickly subdued by the police, disarmed, handcuffed, and taken away. I, still intoxicated, asked my friends with a slurred voice.

"Who is that Father, and what's his identity?"

"The sound like Father. he's a well-known psychiatric patient in this area."

"Why is a psychiatric patient walking around freely instead of being in a hospital?"

"They say the sane people have filled up the mental hospitals, so there's no room for him to go in."

"Oh, I see."

Even in the gradually hazy state of mind, I vividly remember agreeing wholeheartedly with my friend's response.

7

When I think about it, the essence of all these events was just one thing. Despite all the desperate efforts, I could not die quietly, gracefully, with dignity, and comfortably like Emily. No, wait, I should omit the word "comfortably" here. Judging from the consciousness that the hypnotist indirectly allowed Emily to experience, it was certainly not a comfortable death.

8

At least, I had always been sure that it wouldn't be a peaceful death. However, Emily Style's death was uncomfortably different from what was known; it was an exceedingly uncomfortable and painful death. It was an unconscious death that I had tried hard not to foresee.

Closing the laptop, shutting the book, and clearing thoughts about Raymond Carver and John Cheever from my mind. Only one sentence from the manuscript I had handed over to the editor remains vividly in my mind: "The driving force that prompts me to write, generated not from hope but from despair, is a mystery to me."

I pondered this uncertain conjecture for a while.

The driving force behind the engine to move the pen always came from despair, never from hope. Perhaps Emily Brontë, even if not until moments before her death, might have made such uncertain conjectures, not foreseeing death.

However, until the moment of her death, she probably did not anticipate it. The moment one foresees death, what overwhelms a person is fear. She isn't devoured by the emotion of fear until the end.

That's it. Death that does not succumb to fear first, that is the essence of 'dying like Emily.' But knowing the essence of that death does not mean I can execute it as it is. As long as I am not Emily Brontë, it might be impossible to perfectly fulfill the wish of wanting to die like Emily.

But I cannot give up like this.

While considering opening a training program to acquire the method of 'dying like Emily' and hesitating, a phone call came. Suppressing the trembling chest, I calmly answered the phone.

"Hello?"

- You want to die like Emily, don't you?