Drip Drip Drip

“However, as bad as things were, the worst was yet to come, for germs would kill more people than bullets. By the time that last fever broke and the last quarantine sign came down, the world had lost 3-5% of its population.”


The gunshots would keep me up at night. The never-ending cracking of metal upon metal; an
explosion of gunpowder. The constant dropping of limp bodies; friends. Drip Drip Drip, they'd fall quite like the drops of fluid do at this very moment. They keep me up at night now.

Of course, I can't complain – if it wasn't for the hospitality of my cousin, Ruth, I'd have been out
on the curbside by now, surely. “The Sightless Tramp”, they'd call me, taking good care to avoid eye contact as they passed me on their way to and from work. Ruth was a mortician, and she had set up a cot for me in her office -- only temporary, she assured me, but from what I could tell, the mortuary was a fairly elegant place, and as a newly blind man, its stillness appealed most strongly to me. There was a specific odour, however, in which I could only attribute to the embalming fluid she’d use on the bodies.

Drip Drip Drip

More dripping – seemingly from behind, and only slightly to the left. I rested my hands atop the
sides of the bed and with a slight sigh, heaved my body upright. I had tried searching for these drips
before, only to end up smashing an empty jar, along with another which was not nearly as empty as the first. The fingers of my left hand danced across the wall, feeling their way around, as my right glided about in front of me.

Crack

I'd knocked something over. I took a knee and felt around for the victim of my anopsia – a broom,
no less. It was hard now, not to feel helpless, when all I was good for was knocking things over. It was even harder not to long for the days of war – back when I still had use of my eyes, eyes for which I could see the beauty around me. Eyes in which to look upon my beloved Clara – a beloved Clara for which to look upon. I still remember the day I'd gotten the letter. Its dark spots of ink accompanied only by the few trickles of rain on an unusually mild Thursday afternoon.

I like to think I'm desensitized to it now, death. In this town, it's as if death is merely a casual
occurrence not too unlike a family member leaving town for business – and yet, even a blind man such as myself can see the fear and sadness . . . the loneliness. The Great War had ended, only to be followed by an influenza epidemic. Soldiers had returned home to their loved ones in celebration, only to have them taken away by the disease a week or so later. Hell, most soldiers never made it home, and the ones who did . . . they weren't the same. I leaned up against a well and tightened
the bandages over my eyes. The world had darkened in more ways than just one.

Drip Drip Drip

I was getting closer to the source of the noise, its soft beat seeming to originate overhead – a leak in
the ceiling, perhaps. Just then, I felt an abrupt wetness trickle its way down my cheek. Here you are, I thought, only the dripping didn't match the slow dribble I felt, as yet another found its way south to my jaw. I reached up to my face and wiped away the foreign tears. Surprising even to me, I felt a bizarre air of relief. I suppose after everything that has happened, through the burns and bandages, it was in some way comforting to know that I still had the ability to cry.

I stood in that same spot for what felt like quite a while, my hand to my face, and the other resting
gently on some table. My mind wandered; would Clara still have loved me, even with my . . . injuries
Some ritzy music began outside, as I finally left my post. Would any woman be able to love me again? I wasn't too sure, honestly. I'd felt the skin on my face about a hundred times since being discharged. Soft . . . fleshy, I thought. As the tips of my fingers found their way to my eyes, this soft, fleshy texture became rough, and stiff as leather. My sense of comfort was gone yet again, promptly replaced with sorrow. I was grotesque – a freak. A freak with no employable skills. A freak with no future. A freak with no parents, no siblings . . . no Clara. I'd tried not to think these thoughts, and yet, here I was thinking them once again. I felt yet another tear sneak its down my cheek. I quickly wiped it away as the sounds of footsteps broke my train of thought.

“Hart,” a soft voice called from down the hallway. “Hart, are you in here? I've come to clean your
wounds.” I recognized that voice; it was Louise, one of Ruth’s friends. She’d been coming around every couple of days, changing my bandages and such. When she was here, we would talk for a little bit, and I'd come to long for her visits.

“Yes, yes, come in, Louise,” I called back, taking one last swipe at my cheek. I heard the door
open.

“I've brought you some new band—are you okay?” she asked, “Your cheeks are bright red–”

“Oh, I'm okay, Louise . . . what's this about bandages?” I suppose I might have rubbed a bit too
hard. I heard the rustle of a paper bag, and I found a seat. It was peculiar – only a moment ago I had such thoughts and now . . . now I am content. There's something about this woman. When she's around, I feel . . . happy again, and I don't feel so hopeless. My family, friends, my fiancée – all perished in the Great War, and to disease. The world had darkened so much over such a short period of time, and yet, when Louise is here with me, I feel as though my own world becomes just a little brighter. A smile, a laugh – the constant struggle to contain one's composure. She keeps me up at night now.