Forever

He's getting sicker, and his life goes on; he's getting sicker, always sicker, and he remembers when it all started, when it had first begun with the itchy skin, and then the boils; and next came the endless fever and the vomiting and the chills; and now it's been ninety years, ninety years of the sickness, the awful sickness; he's 113 years old, and he's constantly getting sicker (he remembers going to the doctor in the first year of the sickness, and he asked the doctor, "Is it fatal?" and the doctor replied, "I'm afraid that's the problem. That it isn't fatal;") yes, he's 113 years old, and very frail, and very sick; but that's the problem: the sickness keeps him living, and constantly getting sicker forever; and he remembers his years at the circus, when he lay in the cage, and let people marvel at the sickest man in the world (at his pus-laden boils, at his bloody vomit, at his bloody sweat); but that hadn't worked out well, as people, though amazed that such a thing could live, did not like to be faced with sickness; and so he lies awake through the night (he is vomiting too often to sleep, and hasn't slept in days), and thinks that perhaps if he had some children, and could watch them grow old, watch his grandchildren grow old, watch their children grow old (for he is certain to be here forever), he might have a tiny bit of pleasure in his miserable life; but he has been too sick for at least 80 years to make love, and it's too late for that now; and as he lies there he thinks of his many suicide attempts, which only made him sicker; he thinks of what the doctor told him at his last attempt, that even if his head were cut off, he'd simply have to lug it around in his arms for the rest of his life; and as he lies there vomiting black fluid into a bucket, he says to himself, "I'm so alone. I'm so alone," and this is true: everyone who could ever stand to be around him has long since died, and no one has cared to see him in years; he lives in a basement somewhere, in some large city where people pass by outside and don't even realize he's alive; he goes on and on getting sicker and sicker, and he hasn't eaten in years, though he still likes water (it's really his only pleasure, besides dreamless sleep), and he doesn't mind the roaches anymore, he doesn't mind the rats anymore, and he actually likes the darkness, as at times, when he is half-asleep, he can almost actually believe himself dead.

End