Screwworms Eating the Bliss

I decided to just leave it at this

A previously happy and content young man seemed to die as tragedies ate their way into his body and glued themselves in him as maggots. With each blow, he grew weaker, and the weaker he became the more he wanted to be strong. The more he wanted to be strong, the more vulnerable he became. Friendship, identity, sanity and pride were lost. He feigned what he didn’t have, making himself seem as cruel as the maggots eating him alive. People are running away as he deteriorates, but I cannot help but be one of the few people that continue to be by his side. I try to lift him up, but he always falls out of my arms. His cold embrace discourages me, but I shall not give up on him.

 

The maggots in his gut have left him anemic and inches from the grave. He desperately tries to stand, but falls each time. Tears simultaneously streaked our cheeks as the moonlight becomes shadowed by a veil of darkness, as if nature were setting the scene for a midnight funeral. I clutched the gates of the graveyard with a gaping mouth and widened my eyes as I watched him crawl across the grass, sit under a tree, and rest his forehead on his knees. His silhouette against the indigo sky made me rest my fist on my heart. Death has spared him for what seems to be the thousandth time. It wants him to live as far as life can drive him; torturing him, eating him, and crucifying him. I almost want him to die, so his suffering can end. I let go of the cemetery gates and disappeared into the night. The sight of him makes me sick, it makes me want to cry, and it makes me insane.

 

I could still see him for a few hundred paces from the graveyard. His head was upright that time, the shadowy outline of his face seemed to be in a dismal reverie. Then a flicker of light entered the corner of my eye, he light a kerosene lamp. I stopped, turned around and saw the shapes of paper and pen added to the picture. He was writing, as he always does. His writing is nothing but brooding satire complaining of the world’s problems or of obscure facts that no one cares for. His writing style is piquant and the way he recites them makes the piece even harder to stomach than it sitting by itself. Everyone is scared to critique it in fear of him blowing up like an alkali metal in water, which is what he does whenever he feels attacked or finds something that does not suit his fancy.

 

I knew it was time to cure him of his disease. I was done letting him die. And, I was done watching the maggots eat him from the inside out. I walked back into the graveyard and to the tree he sat against.

 

“Good evening,” he said to me.

 

“Good evening,” I said back. “What are you writing about?”

 

“Injustice,” he answered.

 

“Always,” I replied nonchalantly. “Look, I’ve noticed that you seem to be very distraught, and I was wondering if you needed some help.”

 

“Oh, is that so?” he asked sarcastically. “Have you been watching me all this time?”

 

“Yes I have,” I answered.

 

“Don’t you have anything better to do than worry about me?” he asked coldly.

 

“Not really,” I said. “I’ve known you for a long time, and it pains me to see you suffer like this.”

 

“I’m fine,” he lied, his fingers quivering as he continued to write. Suddenly he stopped, took a deep breath and turned to me; his thin pale face haggard in the lamplight, hair strung together, sad and innocent eyes as brown as chocolate and slim figure looking more skeletal than ever under his translucent and baggy clothes.

 

“Am I that bad?” he asked.

 

I nodded.

 

“All I need is someone to care about me, be my friend, love me no matter what, support me through everything and not abandon me because I am too difficult to deal with.”

 

“I can be those things.”

 

“Are you sure? It’s a rather big task.”

 

“I’m sure.”

 

We ended the night with a long hug sitting on the ground. His head on my shoulder, my head against his ribs and the heat of our bodies coaxing us into a deep sleep in the grass.