Short Story Saturday: Filth

FILTH

It's this place. I don't know how much more I can stand from it. I wanted to leave before I lost my mind, but there was nowhere else to go that would be any different. Maybe I had already lost my mind. Maybe . . . Just maybe, I never had the state of mind to lose it, to begin with, but now it's too late to leave.

I look around, and I'm filled with disgust. There's trash littering the floor and every surface in my sight. Why? I used to clean an area, only to return an hour later to have it cluttered with filth again.

There across from me, sitting on the floor, is an apple. It's shriveled slightly. The skin moves as if it's alive, and there are small holes where I can see tiny maggots wriggle out and back in. One of the holes in the top has a foam of bubbles oozing from it. I briefly wonder why it was never eaten.

A pile of shit lay on the floor in the corner; not from an animal or a pet, but from a human being who lives in this dilapidated place we call home. It's been there for a few weeks and has grown hard from the passing of time. I'd pick it up if I had the strength to do so, but it would only be replaced by a fresh, steaming pile within minutes of being removed. The act is one of compulsion as we've never been able to break the boy from the habit. So, for the most part, I leave it there and remove it weeks later in the hopes that a new pile doesn't show up, but it always does.

There's a stinging sensation on my arm, and I look down to see a roach there. The roaches in this place coat the walls, only allowing patches of the Pepto-Bismol pink colored paint to show through. I can feel them crawling under the fabric of the chair I sit in.

This roach has bitten me, as many before have. Maybe it's just as hungry as I am. Or, I suppose, it could be trying to force a bead of sweat to escape my skin. Though, I'm not sure that my body has enough hydration to produce that drop.

I pinch the skin of the affected, roach-bitten area and pull its leathery texture up and away from my body. The roach scurries away, afraid I might squash him under my skeleton-like finger. Only the bug doesn't realize it would be pointless for me to end its life. What would be the use in that for me, other than wasted energy on my part? There are many, many more, so killing this one will do nothing to their population.

I look at the skin I'd pinched; it's still stuck higher than the surrounding skin. It'll take several more minutes for it to settle back to its natural position.

I sit here, not sure why I am still here. To my right, one of the human inhabitants lay on a reclined chair, and I look over at his body.

There's a rat on the man's face. The rodent is covered in the sticky mess of reddish-brown old blood, and it wipes at its face with its tiny hands, licking the blood from them. It squeaks a couple of times before digging back into the eye socket of the man that died days ago.

I should get up. I should move around. I really need to see if I can find some water—I'm so thirsty—but I'm too tired to move. Too weak. I know that soon the rats will dig into my flesh. I wonder if they will wait until I've died? Or, will they begin to eat me before I take my last breath?

My thoughts drift back to the boy. Who will take care of him when I'm gone? He's not mine, but his mother died months ago. Her flesh kept us alive until now. Me, the boy, and the man. But when the man expired, I knew I was next. I was already too weak to move and strip him of his flesh. So, I sit here.

The boy enters the room as if on cue, and he chases away the rat from the man's face. Lifting the man's arm, he begins to gnaw on it. The boy's lucky to have enough strength—and teeth—to chew and rip at the flesh. He glances up at me, dropping the arm; his eyes meeting mine.

I notice a movement, and I look to where his hands are. He's pulled a knife from somewhere and begins cutting chunks of muscle from the man's bicep. I watch as the boy cuts the chunks into pieces small enough to swallow whole. He walks over and sets the pieces on the arm of my chair, and then he quickly leaves the room.

I try several times to grab a piece of flesh with my bony fingers before finally succeeding. When I manage to bring it to my mouth, I place the rancid tasting, slime covered meat on my dry tongue. It's hard to swallow through the dryness, but somehow, I manage to produce a minute amount of saliva and don't choke.

The boy walks carefully back into the room holding a broken jar partially filled with greenish-brown water. I take a second to think where he may have gotten it from, wondering if the creek somehow still held water. It was so low the last time I was able to look. When the boy reaches me, I no longer care where the water came from as I cut my cracked, scaly lips on the broken edges of glass. I drink until no more can fall from the jar. My thirst isn't completely quenched, but it has calmed, and my mouth is left moist enough to finish the rancid meat that lay beside me.

After I've finished my meal, I'm left with a haunting thought: For some reason, I do everything I can to stay here, but my only desire is to be gone from this place for good. Proving to myself, once and for all, that even in the worst conditions a living being will do anything for one more day of life.