A Kiss To Build A Dream On - Season 2: Bridge

The Wanderer's Blues - Glissando

Murray wasn't getting any younger.

When the doctor gave him the ultimatum on his smoking habits, he tore down the shiny plaque with the doctor's name and title bolted next to his office and made it into an ashtray. Nobody told him what to do, least of all a Harvard fuck whose salary was less than what he made in a month. But in moments like these, when he was heaving like a pug on a hot summer day by climbing a few steps up to Henry's foyer, he wished he wasn't such a prideful idiot. He felt his lungs burning up with every shallow breath, and an unnatural wheeze every time he let it out.

Not finding a proper seat in time, he plopped down against the front door, praying to whatever god not to die right there. He wasn't going to make Clara plan another funeral just yet. He reached for his wallet, tucked in his breast pocket, where he always kept a religious stamp of St. Jude Thaddaeus, the patron saint of desperate causes. 

Clara had gifted it to him as a joke — Murray, however, took it deadly seriously, carrying it wherever he went. He was not a particularly religious man, but he was deeply superstitious. The first time he had one of these "attacks", he held onto that stamp as his life depended on it. And it helped, or at least he thought so.

Clutching it tightly, he braced for what was about to come next. He broke into a coughing fit that shook his entire body. His throat was sore and raw, with the coppery taste of blood dominating his tongue almost immediately. With every cough, brown spit projected out of his mouth, making a rust-colored foam on the corners of his lips. He dug his nails into his thighs to try dissipate his pain in any way possible. 

Hands trembling. Cold sweat on his forehead. Feeling weak. Head swirling.

But just as it came, it faded away. Slowly, he managed to breathe normally again. With every injection of oxygen into his system, his head became a little bit lighter. His hands steadied again, if a bit weaker after the fact. Only when he was sure he wouldn't faint did he stand up. His knees threatened to buckle down on him, so he chose to slowly walk towards the nearest chair while hugging the wall. 

The seat barely managed to hold Murray's girth, but for him, it was the most comfortable chair he had ever sat on. He placed the stamp back into his wallet and took out his pack of cigarettes.

Cancer was a common word, commonly tossed around by common people in common situations. How can something so common and mundane take out someone as incredible and remarkable as Murray fucking Prendergast? Ever since he got the diagnosis, Murray decided he was going to leave this earth on his own terms: doing whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted, with no consequences whatsoever. 

According to his doctor, he still had a few months to live — a year, at best, but only if he stopped smoking, drinking, or otherwise not doing anything he liked. But for Murray, a life without pleasure is not a life worth living, so he resigned. He was not going to fight it. It would come when it comes, and that was it. He would be grateful for any extra day he was given, but beyond that, screw the world.

Or at least, that's what he usually thought. That day, he remembered his mortality. Seeing Henry, Clara, and the rest of the guests so heartbroken made him realize he would also leave a heartbroken family behind — A wife without a husband, and a kid without a father. He wanted to throw that pack of cigarettes away. To go back in time and punch himself into submission while he still had a chance of recovery. 

But that was impossible. It was too late. He had signed his death sentence. In a way, Murray was leaving this world on his terms, irredeemable as they were.

When he felt strong enough to stand up, he met up with the rest of the guests in the living room where they were gathered around Henry, who was about to make a toast.