There is a single shade within the pool of dim lighting.
This shade is not remarkable in any way for it holds neither form nor function. This inky blot in the swelling dark is barely recognizable except for the mere fact that there is no welcome, no sanction, within the already barricaded room.
There were sharp streaks of coal, hefted onto the corners of the sagging abode to better leech the invading trickle of light, while the other hues, more grey than pitch, shimmered along the crooked floor, keeping watch over the surface it had been thrust upon by the uneven lambent dip. The degree and volume of such settings do not define themselves but rather draw attention to that which defines all.
The lone blot within the faint luster, if the worn sheen cast upon the area were to be graciously bestowed with such a name, has no more purpose to the room than the rest of the pitch and opaque. However, one should not cast out its affect on thought and humor in the manner which one would cast out the dank corners in the place as equally moot.
No, for here there is a delightful imperfection upon the cloudy symmetry within the opposing (as seen within the rigid, yet obtuse ebon and scattered grey) connoisseurs. Indeed these walls are not hallowed with age rather they aired an invitation addressed to the other sort of individuals more suited toward the strange fate the abode has become so accustomed to.
This minor slip of shade, holding no more substance than those around it, draws one's attention to its brother. Upon the windowsill rests a tangle of corpses interwoven in a fragile embrace (surely constructed before death). This contraption gives an air of gloom and pinch of interest to the jaded contours (and even greater connoisseurs) of the abode. That which once was a slender thing to caress upon a winter's eve, perhaps while gazing past the trailing fabric so bare one would assume its gossamer touch was no more than a fading sigh crawling up one's arms in a touch of gooseflesh, now holds rigidity in essence.
There is no sheen of vitality found within its sloping fractions, even under the scope of the threadbare curtain, delicate in both form and colour quite partial to crushed eggshells. Whatever comfort was once sought from the bosom's sweet scent is for naught. Even the gaiety which washed the walls anew has diminished in light of the room's swarthy prism. Now there is only an armor of rot, gripping that which once lived in a tight hold, seemingly welded by a skilled blacksmith known more commonly as reaper. For as its pulsating life ceased, death needed to protect what it had claimed so that it would better withhold the tale of time.
A tug upon the strings of one's heart, perhaps to record the finding within a requiem, is felt...but only briefly. True, the mass grave upon the windowsill harkens for a moment of melancholic humor but the once vibrant blooms require greater interest than such dark foreboding allows.
Do not let the pang of dismay decay one's mind while pondering why the rot consumed the fragile flora to such an extremity. Rather spread forth the rapid succession of curious inquiries. In this room so dominated by slate, a rarity is found. The unlife of the wreath of flowers is an odd ornament to decorate the sinking abode just as the thick (imposingly so) layer of dust encasing the blooms holds a dark testament to the carelessness of the room's former occupant.
The footfalls belonging to the occupant whilst he or she paced the room's length, as seen within the singular, sunken groove encompassing an entire warped panel of wood, are long gone. No perfume or particular spice litters the air. Rather the room itself is leeched of all scent and sight (including that of logic) aside the looming soot and withered ray. Instead, the air conceals a greater truth as it is both dry and dank. The dust is heady, so much the musk overwhelms the senses; however, the air is stale with misuse and latches onto each lungful of oxygen in a manner similar to asphyxiation.
This in itself does not derive from the passage of time. Quite contrarily, it spins the tale of a lone and long faced figure. The window is not closed for season or convenience but by the hunger which consumes most widows and age riddled men: solitude.
"Time now has come for the rest of the room to be inspected…" the raspy voice trailed off as the lone man appraised the nonexistent furnishings within the unlight of the room, "Fear not…While it may seem the truth is once again muddled, an epiphany lies awaiting!"
Now he glides to the center of the room continuing his earlier soliloquy, "Ignore the deep gouges in the floor, they are either the work of a crazed man, wishing to ground himself into the very woodwork in an attempt of stability or the careless affections of a working man transporting the wooden fixtures which usually keep four walls and a floor company…"
Such particularities are not important for it is not the walls and floor which should occupy one's mind! Cast such fancies from one's mind as the room has cast away morn—Yes, a bit may reside in the recess of one's mind, teetering on the edge of mental oblivion but for the sake of sleuthing, leave it there.
A throaty chuckle sounded as his rasped, "I promise no harm will come to it."
Withdrawing a handkerchief to cough into (and hiding the residue of phlegm), the man clears his throat as he approaches the far end of the room, "Now what of the sloping rooftop?"
Surely this room's sinking dimensions hasn't hidden the far recesses of cobbed texture! True, no branch of dusk imposes upon the misshapen wood, for near consuming the structure of the enclave rests a streaked, fogged mirror of sorts.
This new discovery redirects the room's purpose. Such a clue has not been overlooked purposefully; rather the so called 'mirror' has been the source of confusion from the start! Has it not been the mirror which cast the feeble glint of day unto this trove?
"Oh?" he asks in a mocking tone, almost splitting his voice against the tight feel of the air, "How foolish one is to mistake the window for the source of luminance. Hasn't one seen the jagged boards of driftwood which clothe it?"
His footfalls echo about the previously unoccupied room as he then began to finger the curtain's edge, "Even the glossy shimmer of worn, eyelet lace, should not obscure such mangled, feverish efforts for privacy," as the fabric seems to erode before his touch, he clicks his tongue, "Tsk, tsk. This may setback the quest for truth but there is no time to tarry, nor is there adequate energy to intermingle the musings of gouged floor, sunken to depravity, with walls wearing masks of coal."
The last of his words were punctuated with a dark look peering out from equally sunken eyes beneath a forehead of exceptional girth. His posture shifts dramatically, as that of a cat relaxing its hunched shoulders, as he turns his gaze away from the wall.
"Rather direct one's attention to the scratches upon the surface of the milky glass. Surely the brewing image will grace one with insight toward its purpose?"
He pauses…waiting for an unheard response.
"No?" he sighs in disappointment, "Well there will be none of that useless floundering for explanations when the right one is so apparent—" abruptly he catches his breath (perhaps an aftereffect of the dust) and seems to speak defensively, "There is no need to think excessively, the answers sought are quite soft in comparison to the methods enforced. To speak frankly, the mirror is a device of sorts with a singular purpose: remembrance."
He is quiet, allowing the solemn silence to compliment the aching atmosphere of the room. Yet just as quickly as he it had fallen ill his humor is lifted. Now his newest bout of mania is redirected toward the mirror and not of its purpose.
When the light (naturally supplied through the many flaws of the wood constructing the opposing area of roof) is cast onto the unclothed mirror it shall reflect upon the floor a square identical to that of the mirror. Within this square resides the sullen mirror of the withered wreath.
He grasps at his handkerchief desperately though no move was made to lift the stained fabric to his chaffing, soured lips, "It seems now the earlier assumption based on worn floors and barred windows is false. The occupant was not careless but rather devoted toward the wreath—" Another coughing fit consumes him as he is cast silent.
Once he is beside himself the investigation continues.
The room itself is bare aside from the two discovered items: dried blooms and fogged mirror. The flaws of wood and haste in preparation allow each item to be cloaked with soft beams of gentle light despite its irregularity.
He wheezes as he attempts to voice his innermost thoughts, "What purpose does the mirror reflect upon?"
His watery eyes appraise the mirror: it holds a grand view of the room and therefore its occupant; no matter the angle, a doppelganger is apparent the moment one graces the forgotten mirror with a glimpse of life.
A cruel smile contorts his thick, near unmovable lips, "Oh, but be wary of its murky depths..." such devices are most hypnotic in the haunting lull of wonder.
Curiously enough the inky blot representing the faint remains of flora is not entirely visible upon the uneven layers of light cast by the mirror. In truth not even the haste and rot of the wooden boards upon the window is able to grant a greater streak of sun to the sacred ornament. So perhaps then the two items are unrelated? The mirror grants eye to the seer but the blooms are forever lost to fate—Surely the occupant would have realized such upon receiving the wreath.
He begins to pace the length of the floor.
Yet now had the occupant come across such carefully woven flowers?
"Was it by lover or acquaintance? Does the namesake of the creator of beauty differ from the title of destroyer?"
A pause is given although no answer is voiced and so he continues.
Such information is not readily available and so for now there is nothing to do but to discard the thought to join rank with the floor and walls—On the other hand, let not the thought join the position of floor and walls but rather replace.
"Yes, yes…" he murmurs before stopping his frantic pacing in order to direct his gaze to the ground he had been parading on in such a reckless manner.
A tight, restricted vice grips his throat but he manages to wheeze out another sentence in a mock-authoritive manner, "It is now time to speculate upon the strange carvings of the floor in relation to the wall's hastily slathered ebon."
A pause is given to bring a loathing glance to the walls before his humor lifts and carries him off into a rambling tirade.
"Due to the window's edge which neither allows light nor denies it, a great deal of the room turns opaque—not obsolete with the thick, molasses of pitch. More simply put," he coughs into the handkerchief for a moment before continuing, "the—the irregularity between wooden plank, windowpane, and window ledge all create a potential for lessening the starlit," his voice trails off into a furious pace, "for what else could describe the pitter patter of soft, effulgence which lies scattered about," once more he collects himself, "room's gloom. This contrast provides great insight to the floor but impedes the inquiry of the walls. Such difficulties are to be expected of course…" he ponders the thought with his head bowed before his cross brows raise in joyful expression as he exclaims, "What else exists but to challenge oneself?"
The man begins to pace along the length of the room.
"For the sake of perseverance let one's mind continue its inspection of the sunken floor…" such pauses are now caused by labored breathing, "G-Gouges are not the only," he pauses for a breath but does not cease to pace, " blemish to mar the warped wood. In slight detail one will find small husks dotting the recess of the room," a coughing fit nearly overtakes him but he manages himself, "n-nearing the all too infamous melanoid walls. These skeletons hold much interest in their dry, ash like form which belongs neither to dust nor mite."
He stops his route to bend down and pick up a fragile yet unidentified husk, "To the daring," he smiles as he pushes the husk in between his rounded lips. There is a moment of frustration as he struggles to chew the small piece. In his triumph he continues with a grin so small his teeth barely show, "A simple taste would identify such faded, pebble-like specters for a fairly common food: corn!"
His feet once more wander along the worn panel of wood stretching across the room.
"It is now apparent the occupant ate mostly or solely of corn. This honeycombed food reveals more of our once more reckless occupant," he sneers down at the room, "Such lack of hygiene is only expected when living in near pitch aside oneself and the company of dead blooms; however, the item of food now draws another array of inquires," a strangled wheeze almost steals his breath but he continues, "To whom did the corn belong? Rather a better question would inquire if the corn had been stolen, grown, or purchased? Each speculation could explain much…"
Thickly he swallows the uprising phlegm causing the thick mucus to latch onto his throat as he struggles to swallow correctly and open his air passages to speak he continues to speculate.
To steal food, even that as meager as corn, would require either desperation or fault within one's character—Not simply a moral connotation but rather a conscious one. Only a depraved creature—"Oh yes, depraved!" he wheezed before choking on the stubborn phlegm— would willingly sneak out and steal the simplest of foods time and time again with not thought as to how one would better assist oneself in future endeavors of life and its daily rituals.
The second option of growing corn holds great weight in probability, or lack thereof, rather than possibility. It is not alien to speculate the occupant may have grown corn for an immediate and replenishing source of food but the reclusive behavior seen within the occupant suggests the care and degree of thought required to plan the wax and wane of crop was not worth his or her time—"time…time…" he wheezes until his voice is hoarse and he simply mouths the word. A particular fit of coughing frees his throat of the bothersome phlegm allowing him to continue.
"This leaves," his voice folds unto itself as his attempt to speak merely constricts his abused airways. Stubbornly he continues, "the-the third option: purchase. In o-order to purchase food one requires money," a single shuddering cough escapes him, "—perhaps a basket or some means of transportation if the market is far, but more importantly money," he moans in agony as his throat is rubbed raw with the stale air.
Holding his throat with his free hand (the other occupied with his handkerchief) he directs his musings internally.
Any type of currency is not given freely for even the poor must grovel.
Due to the introverted humor of the occupant, it is doubtful he or she left this solitary room often, least of all to work or even interact with the populace as such acts of begging require. By speculation of provided evidence and use of reason it would be most accurate to assume the occupant stole for his or her 'daily bread'.
Despite solving the origins of such food, other inquires concerning its appearance have yet to be answered.
He attempts to speak once more, his voice a near silent rasp, so quiet it does not disturb the dust within the room even though the filth pervades the air.
"Perhaps the most relevant curiosity is simply this," his voice is gone for now, in a shrewd squeak followed by a hoarse moan it has fallen silent. The investigation will continue but only on a conscious level.
As common sense dictates, corn alone is not privy to secure full nutritional needs to any man or woman. For the first week or so, if forced by duress, such acts of low nutritional consumption are tolerable. On the other hand, prolonged use of corn as a sole nutrient holds a great many dangers due to malnourishment and in turn lower immunity to mild illness which may easily escalate to a deadly level. It is both daring and curious to figure the occupant, a reclusive creature of both oddity and obsession, to keep such hazardous habits.
He shakes his head as a dog will shake his coat to fling off offending liquids; however, the phlegm which near drowns him is not so easily abandoned. A raucous noise grates the air itself as he forcibly coughs and coughs against the phlegm, eagerly trying to inhale fresher air. For a moment he succeeds.
In his bout of clarity he continues to pace the floor.
"Enough of the floors—Enough, I say! Let one's attention now consume the black walls. These four structures are not as sound as they seem..." he glares with unaltered hatred toward the offending structures, "How should one come to such a conclusion?"
He stops.
A harsh smile twists his plump lips as he strains to complete the expression, "Why look closer—No, not at the walls but to the floor," a small wheeze gives him pause.
"Just as the floor gives way to both meager light and length of wood, a slight flutter is apparent. See there—Yes, bend down a bit," he leans down, straining his worn bones, "—in the first inch of wall a flaw of paper is detected. Such paper does not belong to any sort of wall ornament or detail but rather attempts to overcome all ornament and detail within the wall!"
He rests for now, although it is almost certain he will tempt himself to speak again.
Yes, now the pitch is seen in another light, this one a shade far more foul than before. For now, the dark creeping of worry seizes one's mind.
"Oh such worry!—in a flash all the previous facts are reviewed in a paranoid," the word is pronounced with a the same tone one would use to describe foul medicine, "search for fraud but it is for naught."
His teeth peek out between his swollen lips in a sneer, "Do calm oneself, the only forgery within the room lies only upon the walls, the discoveries before still ring true," he straightens his posture as if the act will better allow him to collect his breath.
"Yes, it is alright to carry on with the investigation which in all honesty would hold greater interest than scattered fancies of misplaced doubt…
'Gander here, don't strain one's eyes too hard now, only close enough to make out the scrawled scrapes of ebon," a tremor shoots through him as he holds off a fit, "I-If one's eyes wander to awry do not fret, there too is a surprise along the right of the room."
His voice grows frantic.
"Seek out the wall's uneven edge...There!" he yells the word with such excitement it startles himself. As his mind reels he attempts to steel his nerves.
In a more feeble tone, he continues, "Feel that? A rough texture, isn't it? Not entirely unlike coarse fabric. Curious isn't it?"
'Although it's simply—," another cough interrupts him and through it his words are muddled, "—not enough. Look to the left now and spot another tear in the lower recesses of the wall. This paper is empty of any fault and heavier than the others."
He continues to ramble off, growing more agitated by both his ever ready cough and the irritating air, "—as seen by thickness of the sheet. The irregularity between the three are signs of mismatched and degrading quality of parchment or any type of fabric whose only purpose was to conceal the walls...but what do these walls conceal?"
His tight, raspy voice desperately speaks as if he has the chance of outwitting a fit.
"A sort of eagerness reaches out through the heart and attacks the fingers with tremors of delight...Oh the possibilities!" he sighs heavily, wheezing for a moment to catch his breath.
"—Oh, the possibilities...now a wet mass of rot takes root in the stomach, infecting the neighboring organs with dread."
He holds his handkerchief to his mouth but makes no move to cough.
The air is impossibly tight; the heady and dry seem to overcome the once solid nerves. A newer tension fills the air...a slight shiver of suspicion may overtake the mind but do not give in! The discovery has yet to be completed! It would only shame the well earned evidence to cease the investigation at this point.
"C-Come now, preserve..." he coughs lightly as he speaks in a muffled, strained voice into his handkerchief, "After all, there can be no continuation to the tale of the occupant without compliance to seek the truth."
He removes the handkerchief and raises himself up in a sudden burst of energy.
"There now, steady the heart and hand, then in a fell swoop strip the wall of its mask!"
Do not close one's eyes in shock as dust fills the air and do not pretend one had expected otherwise! This room has been empty for quite some time; the accumulation of dust is paramount to that of mystery.
Once the clouding pestilence fades the true face of the wall is barely seen amid the true shadowy recess of the room—However, the sight is not one of reassurance, rather one which whispers a haunting uncertainty.
He experiences a hacking cough as he puffs the air with strangled laughter.
"M-M-Meet the somewhat o-obscure collection of remembrance without hesitance," a sharp inhale threatens to overwhelm him but this too passes.
"Trace the very arc of the paint brush, the pen, the charcoal with a sharp eye," his own eyes are taken with a sheen of luster barely noticeable beneath his hunched brows, "Note the minute detail within her hair, or the exact shading of her sad, grey eyes…"
He unknowingly ponders the thought before coming to his senses. Despite his shifting feet (moving in an almost unconscious desire to pace the room once more) he stays by the wall, almost in an act of loyalty.
" Yes, look upon the wall...see the hundreds of portraits staring back, each holding a woman in a frame of time never to be seen again," his wheezing breath captures his voice once more.
The withered wreath, the fogged mirror, the husked remains of corn, and now an entire room of portraits...such mystery shrouds the occupant.
Despite the usual association of vanity, vitality, and art with women the acts of rash seclusion and tortured remembrance associates more commonly with man. Yes, it seems almost—"perfect,"— he whispers in reverence. Such accuracy! A man, perhaps a lover or simply an admirer (surely one with easy sight of the beloved), has occupied this room.
A sudden chill strikes his spine, startling himself to such a degree he gives into his nervous compulsion to pace the floor.
Without an explanation, for surely none is needed, the rest of the wall coverings are torn down. No matter the wall, the texture of mask, or wish for anything otherwise, each wall parallels the other in perfect harmony. True some portraits are of poor quality, almost entirely stained with something smelling suspiciously of spirits but most are quite compelling and thankfully without stains. In fact, it is curious to note the actual substance of wall is nonexistent due to the overflowing abundance of portraits and all of a single lady! The dust in the air settles thickly on one's tongue but swallowing the uneasiness is difficult under the tight restriction the air possesses.
A slight tremor rocks him to the core.
His eyes, cautious yet filled with knowing dread, lifts his gaze to the mirror once more. The fogged glass, streaked and spotted with wear, does not obscure its true purpose...Not for remembrance of physical standards but for remembrance—
"—of her," he speaks aloud in a raspy whisper, seemingly unaware he had even stopped to gaze into the mirror.
He shakes himself before continuing to narrate in a hushed, cramped tone.
"Who is this strange woman that captures the fancy of a madman? S-She seems no lovelier," a barking laugh escapes him, "than most; although, within her eyes she possesses an air of sorrow which strikes the recipient of her gaze with a gut-wrenching grip…" he stops to peer sideways to the window as if he expected someone to enter his line of vision.
Solemnly he speaks, "Do not gaze too long into such powerful eyes; there is nothing to see but the crazed longing of the occupant staring back."
He begins to pace again, raising his hand with the handkerchief to cough but instead flops it about in a sort of exhausted excitement.
"Hark! Yet another discovery has been revealed!"
A fit overtakes him.
Turn to the wall directly parallel to the mirror! Gander now at the singular portrait! Is it truly so hard to make out from the rest among the shadows?
With desperate, gasping breaths he sucks in more air as his face turns an alarming shade of red, "Come now, try h-harder!"
Yes, that one right there...There is no mistaking the woven flowers filling the basket she carries with the wreath of dead blooms here in this very room. While such discoveries are thrilling do not loose oneself to high humor lest it cloud rationale.
It is easily deductible to feel assured the woman—
"—so passionately, so feverish, so obsessively—" he chants with easy repetition before giving way to another fit which expels the blasted phlegm into the wasted handkerchief.
—Captured again and again within the madman's portrait eye, did not love or even know of the man. In none of the portraits does she face the viewer directly. Not once does she boldly stare out. Interestingly enough the occupant seems to possess a sense of social inadequacy or perhaps he is victim to any number of physical anomalies. Yes, it is plain to see among the chilling room of portraits, his mind is perhaps the root of his disease.
"I-Is the discovery complete?" he clears his throat to prepare himself for a moment of clear speaking.
Surely there is nothing else in this room...
"Oh—What is that?"
There is more?
He gives of a sharp suck of air, "Why—Of course, of course..."
What a keen eye to spot such small peculiarities! It seems such acts of investigation are not beyond one's reach. Yes, as alluded to, there is indeed blood upon the edge of some portraits. The blood does not feature in each portrait (therefore ruling out the idea of a morbid signature) but sullies enough to raise concern aside from a careless touch by a clumsy or rather incompetent painter.
Oh? What of this strange liquid?
It seems to be a touch darker than water but lighter than either blood or charcoal or rather any other ink or paint which were used for the rest of the portraits.
Lean closer now...Dread increases upon identifying the liquid as pus.
Yes, it is the colour and odor (quite rancid at that) of dried, opaque pus. The pus does not singularly possess any one colour or amount. When taking the other portraits into consideration some bear pus of different strains although the amount of pus inflected portraits is significantly less than the blood ridden ones. Just as a great number fewer are marred by both blood and pus. Interestingly enough there may be no coincidence that those riddled with both pus and blood are nearing the poor quality of those almost entirely blotted out with stain of alcohol.
It seems there may yet be a final answer to this mystery...
"Honestly, the final answer is here!" he chokes out in exasperation.
Is there any doubt? Is there any more evidence to seek?
"Ha! Silence prevails in face of truth!" a sheen of sweat now beads and travels down his face giving the illusion that his skin is melting.
Now then, on with the conclusion!
The occupant of the room holds a clear image in one's eye. He drinks, holds no job, and lusts after that which he cannot have. This much is clear from the lack of furniture, food, yet abundance of liquor stains marking—
"—the beginning of his obsession," he rasped.
Perhaps the man first spotted the woman of his obsession as he made his daily rounds to the tavern or rather he made her acquaintance by mere chance. If she were to be out with her basket of woven flowers, assuming they were crafted for the young or ill, it would be all too easy for a gust of wind to scatter a wreath from the basket and to his unsuspecting figure. Although, the flower may just as easily have fallen from the basket and landed in the gutter. Either the man felt charmed by the woman and offered her the flower back which she denied with good humor or he tucked the small trinket away as a reminder of the lady that would soon consume him.
The explanation for the corn, pus, and blood are all connected within a grim association, one which will take slight patience to understand. Already it is known that the occupant frequents taverns and such places often. So then it is not too outlandish to suggest he has occasionally engaged other ruffians in a brawl.
Suppose the brawl began over the lady, or perhaps, over nothing of importance. Either way, there is much danger in exchanging bodily fluids such as blood and spittle during a fight. It would either be assumed the occupant suffered from consumption or contracted the illness from either a single (or throughout many) brawl(s) as the disease was quite common and holds a particular interest to the tale of the occupant.
His face darkens as he continues, he quickens his pacing.
Once he was beat and thrown out the tavern (for surely not any one man can continuously win any drunken brawl) he was most likely left in the gutter, filled with muck already infested with thousands of infectants. Assuming the man slept in a drunken stupor with his face (no doubt cut open from the brawl) pressed into such infectious materials it would be no surprise for him to begin growing abscesses.
Abscesses in general are not dire if treated. The pus normally swells the skin but is easily drained...but if one were to prolong treatment of an abscess, it would swell to enormous lengths and quite easily spread. A facial deformity such as that would cause the man to curse his luck and spend his days inside (although it does not yet factor the boarded window and multitude of portraits). Despite his seclusion, the desire to see the lady he met or perhaps only spotted from afar grew dangerously in his solitude.
Venomously he spat, "Much like his face, the open sores of regret and hate festered until he was ready to explode."
Hurriedly speaking, sometimes without clear speech, he continued.
"W-While his obsession grew—"in which he must have installed the mirror upon his roof and begun his many portraits—"so did his face as the swelling took a grotesque t-turn. Soon e-eating became a hardship..." he paused to suck in air desperately.
"It shouldn't have been t-too hard to use the savings—" if his family or he, himself, had left any, "—to buy food but with his d-d-deformities h-he would either leave only around d-dusk and most assuredly w-w-walk heavily clothed," he bent over to retch although nothing came forth but the bile from his stomach. He panted, unable to speak or move.
—so as to disguise his gruesome face. Eventually there was no food as cheap or suitable to a man who could barely pucker his lips for the swelling of the many abscesses, as corn. Either he was too poor or too angered by his own actions (or, rather if he was a spiteful man, 'fate') to seek help—
"—and so he continued t-t-o s-suffer."
He was overcome for many a minute before he was beside himself.
"T-The only danger within eating an abun-abundance of corn—"aside from the obvious danger of malnourishment, "—was a disease known as Aspergillus Fumigatus."
He grasps at his throat in disbelief as his last words render him mute; he cannot speak anymore.
Ironically enough the disease would not ordinarily infect anyone who did not already possess an underlying condition of either lung or immunity for Aspergillus Fumigatus affects the lungs by blocking airways with fungi. Under the black grip of his consumption, he would have barely noted the difference.
He staggers as he attempts to pace his room as his thoughts race.
Toward the later time in his life he must have boarded the window and raised the black coverings upon the wall. His creations were suffering, in his mind's eye, far worse than he. In his last hours upon realizing he would not live past the night he was stricken with a great passion.
A terrible tremor rocked him causing him to clutch at his chest while sucking in the filthy air, in needy wheezes.
Despite his silent voice he mouths these last words.
"From here there is not much to tell," his breathing comes now in short bursts of inhalations and long waits to exhale.
"In all likelihood he was overcome by consumption mixed with Aspergillus Fumigatus or malnourishment—and-and collapsed d-dead on the flo—"
The man falls…he does not rise.
A/N:
Although the story is open to interpretation as to who you want it to be, you can tell the person, in the moment, has a very fragile state of mine. It may be a little confusing towards the end, but the person died of malnourishment. As a result of being halted in that house, talking to a mysterious voice who be believes is himself. It is possible that it is truly himself, or another entity altogether, but I can assure you, this was one creepy story!
The theme stems off a medical diagnose I found out about: My cousins's friend has malnourshiment, so I decided to incorporate his condition into a story, as a way to cheer her up. (I hope she sees it.)
I hoped that answered enquires from curious readers! Have a good night and I thank you once more for reviewing my work!
~Enchanting Grace