Viral Death

This pandemic, epidemic, global apocalypse - whatever you want to call it - couldn't have come at a better time for me. From what I've seen on the crumpled front pages of the discarded newspapers hurriedly thrust into the trashcans around the train station and from what I've overheard from snippets of conversation on the streets, COVID-19 isn't picky when it comes to annihilating humans.

It appears it's easy to catch too. People certainly seem more apprehensive, more cautious, afraid of stuff that never used to worry them. The rush-hour crush of yesterday has gone as today's commuters keep a safe distance from one another, their fear of compromising their personal space radiating in hot waves around them, their concern for their own mortality alive and almost tangible in its physicality. There are fewer people lingering around the station exit for a post-commute smoke, fewer people stopping to buy a takeaway coffee from the refreshment stand, fewer people using the station altogether. The smell of perspiration, perfume, and hair oil that generally clogs the air of the station has given way to the nostril-tightening stench of hand sanitiser.

"They're talking about a city-wide lockdown," a blonde girl with sharp-heeled shoes and a swinging handbag says to her gaunt-faced companion as they hurry past without seeing me. "They're predicting thousands of deaths. It's horrible. I'm so worried about my parents."

The girls click-clack away down the street, past the newsagent next to the station as he closes up shop early. He stops for a moment with his hands in his pockets and squints worriedly up at the leaden sky from behind the flimsy screen of his facemask. I wander over to speak to him, making sure to keep my distance to avoid spooking him. "Busy day?"

He barely glances at me as he winds down the graffiti-ed, vandal-proof roller door in front of the shop. "Worst day ever. People are staying home or going straight to the supermarkets to stock up on whatever's left." He slides the lock across at the bottom of the door and hooks the padlock through the slot. "It's the end of the world as we know it. They say that if you catch it, there's very little hope of seeing your next birthday."

My heart gives an excited lurch, a pitter-patter of exhilaration against my ribcage. "And it's easy to become infected?"

He has already turned away, swift feet carrying him towards the anticipated safety of his own home. "Far too easy. A cough, a sneeze, a droplet of airborne saliva, the touch of a finger to a surface hosting the virus and that's it - you're a gonner." He turns the corner at the intersection and disappears from sight.

The last of the commuters have exited the station now and the woman at the refreshment stand is starting to pack her things away. Surreptitiously, I pull off my ragged knitted gloves and run my bare hand along the rail at the top of the stairs before raising my fingers to my mouth for a quick lick of my metallic tasting skin. I edge closer to the trashcan that sits beside the stand, the bin today only half-filled with used paper cups and crumpled crisp bags rather than overflowing with the dregs of consumerism. The refreshment stand worker frowns and swipes a hurried cloth across the counter, her mind on more important things. I take one of the empty cups from the trashcan and settle my own lips on the outline of the perfect lipstick pout that decorates the rim. I repeat this action several times with an array of paper cups before the woman looks up and glares at me. I give her a cheerful grin before selecting an empty salt and vinegar crisp bag from the tumble of rubbish, relishing the thought of running my tongue over the salty, tangy interior where infected fingers possibly scrabbled just an hour or so earlier.

I've always been a squeamish sort of person and I've upheld my fastidiousness ways as much as possible while living on the streets. Yes, it's a grotty way to live in general but a person can still keep themselves clean - or clean enough. This current state of affairs is far outside my comfort zone but death by virus seems an oddly peaceful way to go when compared to the more violent alternatives. I know I don't have the heart to throw myself in front of a train, or to walk in front of a bus, or to cut my wrists with a rusty blade. Those ways and means sound messy and painful and I'm not big on mess and pain. I'm too much of a coward to conjure up a dramatic death.

I walk slowly back to the cavernous mouth of the exit, making sure to touch every surface in reach before again licking and sucking my fingers. I make it into a game. Touch the elevator button: lick. Run my hand over the touchscreen on the ticket vending machine: lick. Grasp the handle of the payphone: lick-suck-lick. I've always enjoyed games, or at least I once did.

I'm back at the exit of the empty station. A light rain is falling now and the air feels fresh and cold. I lean my shoulder against the copper coloured bricks of the station wall and suckle at my fingers. I'm tired, exhausted right to my bones, and I've felt that way for a long time. Tired of battling to stay alive in a world that has no further need for me. I had a job once, and a family. Parents who loved me, a girlfriend. All of that is now a long lost dream, a set of circumstances belonging to someone else entirely. There is no hope of reclaiming what I once had and I've made my peace with that knowledge. As I say, this latest calamity couldn't have come at a better time for me. If this virus is as contagious as they say and with a high mortality rate to boot, I've been delivered an option for opting out of this world on a silver platter. Or on a silver splatter of contagious saliva, if I'm feeling poetic about it.

Satisfied that I've done all that's necessary to hasten my departure from this mortal coil, I give the bricks behind me one final, exuberant lick for luck. With an additional smug saunter in my step now, I take the crisp bag and retreat to my usual sleeping spot in the doorway of a nearby vacant shop to wait for the blessed end.