Under The Skin

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It all started about a fortnight ago.

I was cycling home from work, as usual, and I didn't see him until it was too late. He crumpled to the floor with no resistance, his belongings scattered around the street. I flew over him, because of my speed , landing perhaps a few metres away. It took me a few moments to recover myself, but once I regained my composure I stood up and turned to face him.

His eyes are what will stay with me, the deepest black with a flashing malevolence. Oh, he was an older gentleman, and a reasonably well cut figure he made. But his eyes! They did not waver, in fact I'm sure he didn't blink, as he slowly stood up. He took two steps forward and then, pointing at me, began to speak in a language I am not aware of. One word I did recognize was his last. Before, smiling, gathering up his belongings and walking away, he said, "Infected!".

Aside from being a little shaken I left the scene relatively unscathed, a few grades and bruises aside. My wife has always been one for her first aid skills, and she gently chided me as she cleaned the wounds and applied plasters. Being satisfied that I'd reported the incident to our local police, she left me in the living room nursing a large brandy and my dented ego. It had been quite an evening of it after all!

It was two or three days later that I realized how itching the skin around those grazes were. I made a mental note and asked my wife about it when I returned home. Muttering something about men all thinking they're dying when they get injured, she gently peeled away a sticking plaster and stopped with a sharp intake of breath.

It had got worse. The grazes that is. They were a deep, angry looking red around them too. The bruises, which were quite small if truth be told, had grown too. My wife, ever the concerned, wouldn't take no for an answer and managed to book me in with the doctor. He seemed less worried, thinking it to be a mild skin infection. So I presented my prescription for antibiotics to the chemistry and, once again, put it to the back of my mind.

They always say that an infection may get worse before it gets better. I wish I could too. But it's getting worse every day. I've been feeling nauseous, disoriented and not myself either. I started on the general ward of the hospital, but now I'm in isolation. They never enter my room unless they are wearing full protective gear either. It's not just all over my skin either. No, they told me it's eating me alive, from the inside out. Their faces have been neutral but my wife's howl of anguish when she saw me said it all.

I'm infected. Fatally so.


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