Diseased

Neighbors have moved in. I watch them from my window; they are the picture of health. When the sun touches their skin, it radiates beauty; when the sun touches my skin, it stings – just a little. That’s what I remember.

The new neighbors’ skin resemble a pastry baked to perfection; my skin is pale – grey almost – and flaky. It looks like the flesh of a fish before putrefaction begins. I’m diseased. I don’t know if I acquired this disease or if it is a product of my body’s malfunction, but I know I am sick. I can feel it coursing through my veins, increasing in strength with every passing day.

I stand at my window and watch, peering through the spaces between the boards that I’d used to conceal myself from the world. I only venture outdoors at nights, when I’m sure that the world is asleep. And even then, I don’t venture too far from my sanctuary.

Before today, I never had neighbors; but I never risked walking too far from my home. I didn’t want to run into someone who’d walked too far from theirs. I knew that if they saw me, even if it was just a glimpse, they would’ve feared what they saw – they would’ve feared catching my disease. I can’t blame them though; I’d give anything to be healed of it, but I can’t seem to find the cure. I watch the new neighbors and try to remember what it feels like to be whole.

It has gotten harder to do that, remember what it feels like to be whole. Everything around me reflects my disease. The boards that shield the inside of the house, from the outside, are grey and weathered – much like the skin that protects my insides. The desks, chairs, and tables are strewn with newspapers that are at different stages of aging. The air that I breathe, carries an odor. The odor hangs on the air like it’s a conjoined twin. Eau de decay, perfumes every room of the house.

The smell is suffocating, but I seem to resist its attempt to limit my intake of oxygen. I suppose decay can’t kill decay. Rotten things must stick together. Or maybe the odor is mine so it can’t kill its source, just issue a reminder of its presence.

Ding! Dong! My doorbell rings.

I don’t know how to respond to this new development. My new neighbors are at the door. I haven’t spoken to anyone in years; I fear that I’ve forgotten how.

Ding! Dong! The doorbell rings again.

If I don’t answer, they’ll just go away.

Ding! Dong!

I hear a shuffle and footsteps moving away from the house.

It’s night and my neighbors have retired for bed. I’d watched from my window as they busied themselves with their nightly activities; then settled in for the night. I open the door to my house and see a container accompanied by a note, on my doorstep. I open the container first. A plain cake, the perfect shade of brown, greeted me. I smile, I haven’t done that in a while. I read the note: We’re your new neighbors. I’m not much of a baker, but I hope you enjoy our hello gift. Feel free to drop by for a visit anytime.

I have the urge to go outside when the sun is out. I wonder if it still stings.