I must admit, I paid him very little notice. You can’t expect me to notice every poor sod that’s found themselves living on the streets. I’d never get anything done!
I thought that someone else would’ve called the authorities anyway. He was practically a skeleton, lolling against a closed shopfront – but I couldn’t stop! I was running late for my morning meeting.
Yes! It sounds terrible! Atrocious! Absolutely deplorable. But you must understand that vagrants are a dime a dozen in London! How was I supposed to know there was something special about this one?!
As I stepped past, carefully, I snuck in a glance, flickering my eyes in his direction briefly out of fear of catching his. They were sunken deep into his skull, like two dark holes, almost lost amongst an alarmingly crusty rash that practically caked his face. I would’ve bet that he was going through some kind of drug withdrawal to look this terrible, so I sped up a little more as I passed him.
It was when I was about 10 metres past him that I heard his plea. It really was strange, although he was out of earshot, his words swam around inside my head, as if he was just behind me.
Goosebumps prickled down my back, and I stopped in astonishment.
“Please,” he whispered. I could even hear the rattling of his breath tickling my ears. “Show mercy. Help me.”
Against my better judgement, perhaps weakened by the, well, oddness of this whole situation, I’ll admit I wavered. After all, perhaps I could’ve stopped? Taken a minute. He may be drug-addled, but he’s still a person. He still needs help. I thought all this, as I lowered my head and regained my pace. But when I snuck back a glance, my mouth hung open in sheer bewilderment.
It was like he had disappeared inside his overcoat. Had he really been that skinny? I sped my pace and pushed all thoughts of him from my mind, practically running the rest of my way to work. I didn’t have time for this utter nonsense.
I arrived at my meeting five minutes early. Not as early as I would’ve liked, thanks to that awkward encounter. I looked at graphs and data as I scratched absent-mindedly at a tickle on my lower arm, whilst irritably thinking how inconvenienced I’d been.
By lunchtime, my entire arm felt as if it was on fire. The disgusting feeling of material against my skin was unbearable! I scraped my arm against my desk, again and again, in the hope of quelling the itch. My colleagues said nothing but eyed me with an apprehension that brought an embarrassed flush to my cheeks, but I had to itch.
By the end of the day, I could feel it across my torso. I bolted through the streets of London, tearing at my skin through my clothes, until I’d reached the safety of my own home. When I shut the door behind me, I tore off my pesky outer layer, as the world spun and swam around me. It took all the will and effort I had left to crawl into my bed and let darkness take me.
I awoke in the middle of the night. A little more lucid, but God, the burning! It radiated sharply across my entire upper body now, like someone unseen was inserting tiny individual needles into every single bodily pore. My face stung as if I had smothered them with a patch of nettles.
I staggered to my bathroom and yanked at the cold-water tap on. It blasted icy water into my tub, and for the first time since the morning, I looked at my reflection in the mirror.
It wasn’t the pain that made me hyperventilate, but the sight! The rash that had spread across my face, and shoulders and down my back, a rash that looked like cracking skin. I almost didn’t dare touch it; in case my flesh would flake away to reveal the skeleton underneath. I stared at it, dumbfounded. It was only when the bath began to overflow that I was snapped back to reality.
The pain was too much. Too much for me to even question whether dousing my rashes with water was a good idea, but I wish to God that I had. I almost dived into the tub, submerging myself in the cold, and closing my eyes in relief, as I felt the pain and itching melt away to cold numbness.
When I finally opened them, there was a thick layer of powdery scum, floating idly on top of the water. I stared at it for a moment, wondering where it had come from.
It took longer than I’d like to admit for me to ask myself the question. Why had the itching gone? I thought. Was it because the water had soothed my skin?
Or was it because there wasn’t anything left to itch
Gingerly, I sat up in the bath, and looked down. My exposed ribcage jutted out from the bathwater, only lightly covered with a layer of sodden, putty-like flesh. Scummy droplets dribbled from my ribs into the tub.
I screamed hard enough to awaken souls in hell.
I jumped from the bath and looked to the mirror to examine the damage. The skin across my entire upper body had deteriorated, leaving only my face semi-intact, but my legs! They hadn’t yet been taken by the disease.
My first thought was an ambulance but attempts to call them failed almost immediately. My hands were the worst – two sodden, messy piles of flesh and bone hanging from my wrists by a couple of eroded tendons, leaving small piles of mushy skin on the phone as I tried to dial.
My second thought; my legs are still intact. I probably had time. Time to run to the hospital myself, so I wasted no more of it, as I pulled a long overcoat from my cupboard to hide my thinning frame, and practically launched myself at the door.
I honestly thought I would make it, but the fever and fatigue returned when I was 10 minutes away from the hospital. My legs had begun to shake and itch five minutes prior. If I fainted here, then they may be useless when I awake. I prayed I had enough time to reach the hospital.
But I didn’t. I staggered for another few steps before my legs buckled underneath me. I managed to drag myself across the path and prop myself up against a shop front, before the darkness took me again.
Daylight stung my eyes when I finally opened them, and it only took the burning feeling radiating up and down my legs to tell me that I’d lost use of them. I didn’t need to look. I didn’t want to look.
I turned my head to assess where I was. Just two streets away from the hospital. I wasn’t quite out of the game just yet.
I just needed someone to stop and help me, and there were plenty of people passing me. My heart leapt in a hope that slowly eroded as seconds, minutes, then hours passed by without anyone stopping.
I barely got beyond ‘please’ each time, before their pace quickened around me. Headphones with no music playing. Fake phone calls with no one on the other side. All techniques I’ve used more times than I can count.
I kept trying. Pleading turned to begging. I said ‘help,’ again until my tongue crumbled in my mouth, filling it with thick, chalky ash that I choked on. When I spat out my tongue, it only added to the apprehension of those who passed me. I was just a homeless alcoholic vomiting up the activities of the night before. I groaned in response, trying to make them understand, trying to make them help.
My sodden skin began to dry. Perfect timing as the wind grew heavier. With each gust, I was a little lesser, but no one looks properly at the man who’s wasting away on the street.
I had one more try left in me. One last go.
A man in a business suit flashed a glance in my direction before quickening his pace. I couldn’t speak, so, I willed the message into his mind in sheer desperation. Mentally hurling it in his direction, like a cricket ball travelling at 100 miles per hour. He jumped, and looked around, slowing his pace for a second. My heart missed a beat, as I wondered whether he would stop.
He gathered his composure and quickened his pace once again.
As I crumbled into dust and the wind blew me away, there was one thought on my mind.
Perhaps he was running late for a meeting?
Mesmerised by the Macabre 