Jan 2016
A solitary light, in a solitary window, illuminating a solitary life. His stomach hurt just thinking about it. 'We've all heard stories,' he says to himself, 'of people who die in their homes and lay undiscovered for weeks, months, years. Some wonder how such a thing could happen. Surely someone notices they've gone missing? We like to think that would never happen to us. We like to think that someone would notice our absence, and would take the time to come by and check that everything's okay. Yeah, we all like to think so.'
All he really knew is that he'd been inside for a little over three weeks now. His job was surely forfeit; he'd never really know, because his phone had been splintered weeks ago, smashed against the wall and shattered into a million little pieces. There were two weeks worth of mail crammed into his mailbox; after that, the postman had given up, tacked a note to the door, informing him the rest could be found downtown and he could retrieve it himself at his earliest convenience, if he'd be so kind. In order to read the note though, he would have to open the door. It would remain unread.
The food was almost gone. He hadn't smoked in days. He couldn't remember the last time he'd showered, or shaved, or even brushed his teeth.
His dog lay in the corner, too weak to move; for days now the only sound had been the poor creatures weak and stuttered breath. The room smelled of **** and ****; the floor was covered in it. The poor thing had held it as long as it could, but eventually gave in. It had to go somewhere. That problem, at least, had been temporary. It'd been so long since it'd eaten that its body was starting to digest itself; that process seemed to be wholly efficient, for it created no waste.
If he felt bad about the suffering his neglect had bestowed upon the beast he had voluntarily charged to ward, it never showed. Soon, the dogs pain would subside. Today, tomorrow, who could tell? Though when that beautiful moment finally came, he knew he'd be ready; he would soon follow. He had no hope for a change, but he knew it couldn't be any worse, and that was enough.
All he really knew is that he'd been inside for a little over three weeks now. His job was surely forfeit; he'd never really know, because his phone had been splintered weeks ago, smashed against the wall and shattered into a million little pieces. There were two weeks worth of mail crammed into his mailbox; after that, the postman had given up, tacked a note to the door, informing him the rest could be found downtown and he could retrieve it himself at his earliest convenience, if he'd be so kind. In order to read the note though, he would have to open the door. It would remain unread.
The food was almost gone. He hadn't smoked in days. He couldn't remember the last time he'd showered, or shaved, or even brushed his teeth.
His dog lay in the corner, too weak to move; for days now the only sound had been the poor creatures weak and stuttered breath. The room smelled of **** and ****; the floor was covered in it. The poor thing had held it as long as it could, but eventually gave in. It had to go somewhere. That problem, at least, had been temporary. It'd been so long since it'd eaten that its body was starting to digest itself; that process seemed to be wholly efficient, for it created no waste.
If he felt bad about the suffering his neglect had bestowed upon the beast he had voluntarily charged to ward, it never showed. Soon, the dogs pain would subside. Today, tomorrow, who could tell? Though when that beautiful moment finally came, he knew he'd be ready; he would soon follow. He had no hope for a change, but he knew it couldn't be any worse, and that was enough.
