For the first twenty-five years of his life, Isaac Fletcher was quite the social man. He was not a man of wealth per se, even still he was able to entertain close friends and family with little to no funds, making him a particularly popular man. What he lacked in money, he made up for in spirit and charisma. It seemed as though he exemplified what it meant to be a gentleman, winning the admiration and devotion of many men and women. The tragedy of his death seemed so out of his character, but it can be traced back to single starting point, a single day.

When he wasn’t spending time with family or friends, he could be found working, he was a blaster for a railroad. He had been designated the job of clearing rocks, no matter their size. If the rock was to large to carry, it was part of his job to create holes, then pack down gunpowder and set it off. He had been doing this for four years now, and it had gone off without a hitch every day. It wasn’t the job that he had dreamed about as a child, but he couldn’t complain. He was paid well, and always got to spend a good amount of time with his family at the end of the day.

April 23rd, 1846 changed Isaac Fletcher, so much so that after that day, some of his old friends didn’t even recognize him. He had become someone completely different. When he had woken up that morning, he had not a clue what lay ahead of him. It was an innocent day, just like any other.

The sun had risen just as it had every day, and it beat down on him as he worked, just as it had everyday. A particularly large rock lay ahead of him, but he knew the simple procedure. First a hole was to be drilled in the ground, then the blasting powder was to be placed in, and carefully packed down with a metal rod. That’s when it happened, after so many times of being successful, a small mistake had breathtaking consequences. The metal rod had scrapped again the rocky ground, causing a spark that lit the gunpowder.

Before he knew it, Isaac had a metal rod pass through his head.

It had all happened in an instant, or so it seemed. The gunpowder had been set off, and the rod he had once been holding in his hand now lay beside him, soaked in blood. He had been pushed down by the force, and remained on the hard ground. A tremendous pain pulsed through his head, fear and pain paralyzing him. In that moment, he awaited for the end. Then, he was suddenly hit with a will to survive. He was able to get off the ground and walk around with relative ease, despite the massive hole in his head. He wandered around trying to find another person for almost an hour, when he came across some co-workers.

“I got my packing rod shot through my head.”

The ride to the doctor felt as though it may last a lifetime. He had lost all sense of time, and could no longer tell how long it had been since the accident, all he knew was that the pain was not subsiding, and he feared that it never would. He couldn’t sleep, as he he may have fall into some sort of unconscious state. So he lay awake for the long, grueling trip, trying not to think about what he must look like with a hole in his head, the thought would only bring him more and more pain.

“I do not believe you.” The doctor repeated, his voice stern and concise. “A man can not possibly get up and walk again after having a rod pass through his head.” Isaac didn’t understand why the man did not believe him, and he didn’t know how long he would last if his wound went unhealed. Troubled, it came to him to simply see a new doctor, who perhaps would understand his situation. As he was attempting to leave, a tremendous cough struck him. He was filled with a tremendous unexplainable dread, and he turned around to see the doctor holding sort of pink tissue in his gloved hands. It took a moment for Isaac to recognize as a part of his own brain.

“A metal rod, you say?”

Isaac was alive, yes, but something about him had changed, his personality. His kind heart and compassion was replaced by bitterness and anger. He was known to have outbursts of rage at random times. He had driven away much of friends and family at the two year anniversary of his accident, and now he lived at a hospital where a team of doctors and psychologists watch and studied him daily. Will to truly live still remained in him all those years, but every one of his attempts to escape were failures. Until July 4th, 1854, when he finally found his way out of the hospital. It would be another four years, June 16th, 1858, when any news of him would be heard. Isaac Fletcher lost all consciousness that previous night, suffering from continuing episodes of seizures that lasted throughout the night. He was alone when he finally passed, just as he had feared his whole life.