Conversation with a Snail - A Short Story about Snails and Death

 

He sank into his chair. It was an old armchair, creaky and musty, splitting at the seams and groaning loudly under the slightest increase in weight. But he loved it fondly. He'd grown rather attached to this house over the past few centuries, and that chair was among the things that stood out to him the most. It was durable, for one thing; it had lasted almost two hundred years of him sitting on it constantly (As of late, he hadn't really been moving much), and it was also comfortable enough for him to sleep somewhat soundly for what seemed like days on end.

 

He let out a weary sigh, holding his head in his hands.

 

"I must be losing my mind. Staring Death in the face and all I can think of is armchairs; I'm probably already dead," he muttered to himself, getting to his feet and stretching his stiff bones. "Make yourself at home!" He called out as he clicked his back, chuckling as the Snail kept moving. "Who am I kidding? You're finally getting what you wanted after all this time, you're not going to want a chat," he turned and made his way to the desk, where an old gramophone sat. He scraped off the thick coating of dust before winding it up, putting on a record from ages past. Miraculously, it worked. As it played a crackly ballad, he turned to his fate, patiently inching toward him without a care in the world. Right now, it was spoiling a perfectly good vintage rug bought from a marketplace in Eastern Europe, sometime in the 36th Century. At least, that's what the post-it note said. The entire living room was smattered with them, giving context and insights to many ornaments long forgotten to time, and there were plenty to pick from. Vast quantities of trinkets and keepsakes adorned the shelves and the tables, a huge collection of priceless junk collected over the past century, all living in the cottage he currently called home. He turned away from the gramophone and spoke again, adopting a more authoritative tone to his voice. "Well, you're getting one anyway. I'm sure you're desperate to end me right here and now, but that can wait. You've been hunting me for millennia, you can wait an extra five minutes," he said. The Snail kept moving. "Should we catch up from last time?"

 

No response.

 

"I thought so. When did we see each other last? It must've been about a couple hundred years ago," he pondered, scratching his chin with an aged hand. The answer suddenly came to him. "Oh, that's right! It was in that hut in Venezuela! I loved that place. Very homely, albeit rather chilly. I suppose some breezes can be expected if you never bother to board up the holes in the wall. And why should I have bothered? You'd have ended up reaching me anyway," He sighed, and a tear rolled down his face. "We've had a good life, you know that? You and me, it hasn't been so bad. It's just..." He wiped his face. "I wish I'd spent a bit more time thinking instead of running. I've been running for too long, always on edge, always terrified of you and your consequences. All I ever did when I saw you was run, and that never left room for me to appreciate your company for what it was. Time with a friend," he chuckled. "Heh, "friend". It feels strange to say but, you're the closest thing I've had to a friend in the longest time."

 

The Snail kept moving. It was off the rug now.

 

"Of course, I've had friends. Countless, in fact. You don't make it to this age without making a few pals, you know? But when you grow as old as me, long-lasting friendships don't actually end up lasting that long. I meet them, we have a good time, then they go," He sighed. He rubbed his eyes and continued, a solemn edge to his voice. "Just like that. And it hurt, when they went. It hurt so much. And I never knew why." He was sobbing now, his face streaming with tears. "And you know what?" He wiped his face, washing off the tears and the compassion and all the stupid emotions that had held him back for so long. He took a deep breath, and his face darkened. "It's not fair." He picked up the gramophone, still crackling away. "Why did I have to be the special one?" He spat, his face creasing with anger. "Why must I spend my life living in fear and sadness and loathing? Why couldn't it have been anybody else? It always had to be me, didn't it? I was screwed from the start, just because fate thought so! It's just NOT FAIR!" Without a second thought, he threw the gramophone at the Snail with as much force as he could muster. It shattered instantly, letting out a final discordant crunch as it burst into thousands of pieces. But the Snail kept moving, completely unfazed by the attack. He kept throwing things, each one doing as little damage as the last. "I was meant to be above them all! I'm supposed to be a God! Why the HELL am I so weak!?" He went to grab another ornament from the shelf behind him, but he simply clutched at thin air. He spun round, seeing the top row empty, the contents now in pieces on the floor. In one last desperate fit of rage, he grabbed the back of the shelf and toppled the entire thing on his tormentor. After a minute of pained silence, the dust cleared, and underneath the rubble, the Snail kept moving.

 

He didn't really know what to expect, but either the effort or the futility caught him off-guard, and he came to his senses. He stumbled over the rubble to his armchair, where he pushed it against a misty window, as far away from the Snail as possible. He slumped down, suddenly feeling his age catching up with him. "God, I'm not as young as I was. What I wouldn't do to get some of my youth back, eh?" He chuckled, and glanced at the Snail emerging from the dusty wreckage before him. It kept moving. "Sorry for losing my temper, that wasn't very good of me. I guess a little tantrum was a long time coming. It's just..." He took a breath. "I can't help but feel like I've been doing everything wrong. There's never enough time to do everything, but it still feels awful when you can't do it," He thought for a second. "I guess what I'm trying to say is that I don't think I'll ever be happy, no matter how much I try to convince myself otherwise. And, truth be told, I haven't been all that cheerful in a while. In fact, I've been bored stiff. It's a pretty lonely experience, immortality. The last one went away millenia ago, and it wasn't grand or awe-inspiring or anything, it was just death. I was there by their side and they seemed grateful for the company; then they breathed their last, and I was lonely again, just like that. And now I'm here, God knows how much later, and I've been lonely ever since," he let out a deep gasp, not even aware until now that he'd holding his breath. "And you know what I felt, in that moment? With their limp hand in mine, and their lifeless eyes gazing back at me?" A tear slid down his eye. "I didn't feel sad. I didn't feel angry. I just felt jealous. For the first time in my eons of life, I just wanted to stop." Salty tears were streaming down his face now, his nose running down his mouth. He sniffed back the snot and wiped his face clean, continuing. "I've lived so long with next to no fear of dying, and I don't think that means I even lived in the first place," another sigh escaped him, but his face was steel. "And I'm tired of not living," his voice wobbled. "So I might as well stop." The tears kept streaming down his face, each one more bitter than the last. He tried wiping them away, but more kept coming, never ceasing, never stopping. Meanwhile, the Snail kept moving. It was less than a metre away now. He gathered his thoughts, finally managed to dry his face, and stood up, finished. "Well, I've said my piece. Come." He strode over to the front door, pushing down the handle and giving it a hard barge with his shoulder to open it. It swung outward, and he stepped outside into the crisp morning air.

 

The grass was wet with morning dew, catching the early rays of light and sparkling like a field of stars. A raven croaked a couple of times, and flew off into the brightening sky, disappearing into the horizon. Breathing in the cold air, he sighed, then set off on one last walk around the garden. A final pensive stroll before he could finally see what all the fuss was about. He walked down the patio steps and across the decking. He hopped over the little stream by the firepit and ran a gentle hand across the beech tree as he strolled past. He drank in every memory, savoured every last moment he got to spend here; the crunch of the sticks as they snapped underfoot, the whispering trickle of the stream as it flowed through the garden, the calm scent of the snowdrops as he took in his final breaths. Every moment was cherished; every feeling and thought was savoured; this wasn't just a walk across a pretty garden, this was special. 

 

He wanted these seconds to last forever, to remain in a perfect snapshot of brilliance for eternity. To gaze at the burning sky and bathe in nature until time itself gave up.

 

But he knew he couldn't.

 

And he was fine with that.

 

After his walk, he ended up back at the lawn, now bathed in the warm orange glow of the rising sun. The Snail was there too, a little brown speck nestled amongst the grass about ten metres away. It had stopped moving now. He began his approach, nervous but confident. Cold waves of fear washed over him, but he took them on the chin and pressed onward. Each step he took required more effort, his legs getting heavier and heavier as he marched toward it, it getting closer and closer; before finally coming to a stop. The Snail was just in front of him, about half a meter away. It seemed peaceful now, simply sitting there, waiting for his touch. And he was just as ready as it was. Now he was finally here, he didn't feel scared at all. He just felt a bittersweet sort of happiness. 

 

"Alright," A smile shone on his face as he knelt down on the lawn, closer to the Snail than he'd ever been. "It's been an honour."

 

The sun was shining.

The wind was still.

The birds were quiet.

He raised a finger. 

Closed his eyes.

And softly touched the Snail.