He paced the room, a sense of carelessness in the way he walked. Anybody that saw him would have thought there was a bit too much of alcohol consumed but in fact, nothing of a sort existed in the room.
White walls and a White chair. Even the floor was white matching the bleached trousers and shirt he wore. Socks were white as well and every now and then he would sit on the chair, lift a leg over his knee and look underneath his feet. The socks were clean. He would complain if he saw the whites of his socks darken with dirt.
Every morning and every night he would ensure the maid would bring him white rags, a bucket which it too had to be white and warm water diluted with vinegar and bleach and there he would spend a couple of hours cleaning the walls then start the task of scrubbing the tiled floor.
He couldn’t understand how people could live in such filth! The germs that manifest all around you and God only knew what disease one would carry and then inhaling these germs. He wasn´t going to be one of those unfortunates who had to rely on medicines to cure such illnesses.
It was why he preferred to sleep on the floor and not on the bed. They like to accumulate under beds; a darkness beneath which was haven for them. It first begins with a build up of dust then the dust becomes their home where they gather in multiple of thousands. The mattress is another that they love to breed and again thousands upon thousands of mite’s invade and they crawl onto your skin, eating away at your flesh and you have no idea what is actually happening!
And the most dangerous part was the toilet sitting in the corner. The waste that comes out from a human was revolting. Now that was germs but unfortunately man was created to do this, his body was a type of machine and it was the way it had to work. Even the stench sickened him and because of this he immediately washed the interior until it sparkled like diamonds though it took a little time for the bad smell to waft away.
Dinner would be here soon and then after dinner he would start his chore to clean his room. He hoped this time they would bring him the chicken with the white wine sauce and not that terrible gravy that reminded him of mud!
Though he didn’t have a clock or a watch he knew after all these years when dinner would arrive. It was the same with breakfast and lunch. His body was a time telling mechanism, an alarm clock that woke him every morning at six thirty; he would exercise then scrub himself down with a sponge and water then dress in crisp white clothes.
He never ventured outside the walls of his room. Too dangerous. Any form of infection could get inside him and contaminate his blood. No, even the people that worked here were instructed to wear masks whenever they entered the room. He didn´t want their poison spread around the vicinity of his home.
He heard them coming with his food and quickly he stood at the furthest point of the room, and carefully watched the door being opened.
‘Good evening Mr Lapel. Your meal for tonight.’
‘As I ordered?
‘Chicken breasts with white wine sauce.’
She set the meal on the floor in the middle of the room where she knew he liked eating, bid him a good evening and left closing the door behind her. He slowly stepped towards his dinner occasionally looking at the door then stopped on his tracks. His eyes were averted to the door and like a statue he remained motionless until the click was sounded then he relaxed and sat in front of his meal.
He surveyed the white tray making sure everything was there: white gloves, a plastic cup filled with white wine and the one thing he hated to see was the silver cover that covered his meal inside. Putting on the gloves he lifted the lid and placed it beside him and smelt the meal. He was pleased.
Devouring the food in little chunks and chewing the meal slowly in order for it to digest quicker, he sat at ease and happy as he took a sip of the sweet wine and nibbled at the chicken.
It was then in sudden disgust that he jumped to his feet and repulsively stepped to the back wall in horror. A black insect which was more of a cockroach made its way across the room.
‘No!’ he screamed but not loud enough for anyway outside the room to hear. The horrid thing was zigzagging across the floor then found its way to his meal. Slowly he crept up to it and lifting his foot brought it down with such force that the weight of his foot broke the dish and sent the half filled wine cup across the floor. The squashed bug left quite a mess on the floor and on his sock which made him sick.
He ran to the toilet and bowing his head vomited. Now this was unexpected. This shouldn’t have happened. Now the whole room was infected, the germs, the virus.
He quickly in disgust pulled off his sock and looked at the remains of the bug stuck to the cotton material then tossed it across the room. Where did the blasted thing come from? Maybe when that bitch opened the door to bring him his food. Yes, it must be that for how else could that ugly thing get in?
He noticed that he was bleeding; a piece of glass had embe dded itself in his foot. On the toilet seat he looked at the blood and suddenly became hypnotized by its color. It was a wonderful red, so rich and thick. This amazed him and for some time he sat looking at the blood slowly drip to the floor.
On his knees, he began to write his name with his finger, pushing the blood to form letters but he was only able to manage three letters. He stepped away from the writing and a smile crept across his face. How wonderful to see such a color blending in with the white.
He pushed away parts of the plate that carried the dead bug and picked up a small piece of the ceramic dish. Slowly he started to rub its edges along his wrists until it caught the veins, dropped the piece and held out his arm out to watch the blood drip onto the floor.
He didn´t realize that the incision was a little deep and ruptured the vein but he didn´t care. He had never seen anything so spectacular. Dropping to the floor he started drawing, painting whatever his mind conjured.
If it wasn´t for that bug he wouldn’t have known what it was like to see such beauty. He got hold of his right hand and with his fingers pushed down on the cut to enable a quicker flow of blood to run down his hand.
Like a crazed man he walked around splashing his blood across the room, little did he know that he was slowly killing himself but that was ok. He was happy.
An hour later the nurse from the psyche ward came to collect the dinner only to find him laying in his own blood, both wrists sliced to the bone.
Carlo J Vella
Inspired by the writings of David Thomas Lord
