And half the bulbs were burnt out in the stairwell.

I knocked three times, then shouted out my name.

After a pause, I heard the deadbolt turn.

Then a familiar voice responded softly,

“Come in, old friend. I hoped that you would visit.”

I walked into a dark and empty room.

Only a folding table and a chair—

The sort of junk you see left on the street.

Piles of old newspapers littered the floor.

Some slats of light leaked through the window blinds.

I did not recognize the man who sat there,

His coarse, flat features or his bloated face.

His hair was gone. One eye was swollen shut.

He was dressed only in a dirty robe.

His body was a leopard skin of bruises.

“Welcome,” he said, “to the Kingdom of the Dead.

I wish that I could offer you a chair,

But don’t expect good manners from the damned.

I should apologize about the smell,

But once apologies begin, where would I stop?”

“I’m here,” I told him, “because Eden asked me.”

“I hope you’ve seen enough to understand

I can’t go back. The man I was is dead.

I’m just the fellow waiting for the hearse.

Mentioning Eden only makes it worse.

Even a monster has his vanity.

I left the other man his life intact.

I didn’t steal a thing, not even her.

Don’t think I wasn’t tempted, but why pack

All of the beautiful things you can’t take with you?

My new style, as you see, is minimal.”

“How can you talk that way about your wife?

This is no time for striking clever poses.”

“You seem surprised to find me eloquent.

Being well-spoken is all I have left.

I want to make this conversation matter.

We’ll never have a chance to speak again.”

“Not if you end up staying here!” I cried.

“I’m glad, “he said, “to hear you speak of endings.

My downfall makes a very shabby story.

Reality has made a botch of it.

First up, then down—no nuance, no panache,

In short, no style. After playing the prince,

I find it difficult to be recast

As Caliban for my farewell performance.

I could endure this suffering or worse

If I could end as something other than

An object of intolerable pity.

The ending is what gives a story meaning.

So let me start my new and last career—

The editor who will revise this story.

If I’m compelled to play the monster’s role,

Then let the monster have his grand finale.

Give me a death scene and a juicy speech,

Not a morphine drip in a hospice bed,

Nor a last whimper to a paid attendant.

Report whatever details you see fit.

It might be easier for everyone

To term this denouement an accident.

For me, it is enough that you bear witness.

You always understood my sense of style.”