Sang Envie

He always wondered what life is like for the mentally handicapped. He couldn’t fathom the mental inability to gauge emotions, the incessant and nagging urge to adjust imperfections in the surroundings. What greater mental challenge is there than to overcome the inexorable mind games of the untamed imagination? The very concept of disconcert was preposterous; how could any human lack mental capacity on par with his? He believed such people were inferior, and should not be allowed to burden those worthy of life…

He pondered the uses he could create for the chemicals that surrounded him. The label on the beaker in his hand read ‘Haemoglobin’. His breath frosted into mist in the cold, sterile laboratory air. He swilled the sample, before gently sniffing it. What aroma was it? It was difficult to tell. A little like Cabernet Sauvignon, perhaps? He placed the beaker back into the fridge, sat at his workbench. He began recording today’s results…

The people around him began to move faster. He could feel the warmth of the sun on his face as he sat on the cold metal bench. The path each person travels is deliberate and has purpose, but the crowd was a thoughtless mass of random movement. He could hear so many sounds, but couldn’t pick them out from the noise of the traffic. He looked at the face of his watch through the cracked glass, but didn’t recognize the time…

Stepping out of the taxi onto the deserted street, he found that only one street lamp was alight. He hurried into the stuffy, yet warm interior of the hotel foyer, in search of refuge from the bitter cold outside. He trudged up the staircase to his floor, lost in his thoughts. The key turned in the lock, and the door swung open. He kissed his pale wife on the cheek, and collapsed into bed without another thought. The curtains were drawn closed…

An icy breeze crossed his face, but it could not quell the fire in his veins. He felt stronger than he had ever been before… but he couldn’t move. His eyes shifted to the mirror on his bedside table, next to the photo of his wife. His wide eyes stared back in fear, as thick red drops leaked from his mouth. He could hear her crying…

…But he could not see her. He struggled with himself, trying to get up to find her. He could feel her presence, could sense that she was nearby. He began to crawl towards her; he could smell her terror. She cried out to him, tried to appeal to his better nature. He needed her too much for that. She kept him warm on cold nights, she kept him alive at her expense; her blood was worth more than her life, she understood that from the beginning. As he wrapped her in his arms, he kissed her neck lightly, attempting to calm her. She fainted in his arms, unable to fend him off. He laid her in the bed, and curled up next to her. He woke up with a start, a sinking feeling in his chest…

He shuffled into the bathroom, too dizzy to differentiate reality from dreams. He ran water in the plugged basin, and stared into the mirror. His face looked drawn and gaunt, with dark patches under his eyes. He sighed, washed his face clean of her, and pulled the plug. He watched the last of her blood drain, before returning to bed feeling satisfied. The night closed in on him…

Kneeling over her grave in the abandoned cemetery, he uttered a prayer of forgiveness. He glanced at her reflective tombstone, and wondered who kept it polished. With a last pang of sadness, he returned to his grave, feeling he could sleep at last.