Author's Note: This is nothing but a short drabble. Originally intended to be a short story, it never even reached the point of having a plot. Disappointing, but I found nothing more to do with it. Warning: melodramatic.
September 17, 1918
Dear Ben,
I can't help but wonder if I’ll ever glance upon your return letter, but I know that that should be the least of my worries, just as I've known for quite awhile that it will never be so. Regardless, I pray every second for the day that I'll return home, bright-eyed and healthy, to my family.
As of yesterday, I've fallen ill with what was once thought to be the common cold. It seems now, however, to have turned into an international nightmare. The clinic nurses do their best to revive the sickly patients, and doctors vigorously work to discover a cure. However the disease is as swift as it is lethal. Last night, a woman came into the clinic and died several hours later. I suppose this is why Father brought me here promptly once I began complaining of a sore throat. Whether this was an astute or witless action, I’m unsure. A common cold may have been the complication initially, but once I was submerged within ill patients, it would be foolish to think that I wouldn't have caught the disease in any case. I could be incorrect, however. Father may have desired me isolated, fearing that I would spread the damned disease to the rest of the family.
I hope for the best, but am expecting the worst. I have no concrete evidence, but I’ve deduced that my condition is severe. The proof is in the way the nurses rush forth when my breath catches in my throat. They seem eager to clear the beds for people who have not proven themselves capable of succumbing to the Grim Reaper.
I am writing to you because this letter is my last, and I have decided to let my final thoughts be heard. I have not the heart, nor the will to reveal my pessimistic thoughts to my parents. I figured it's better to confess to someone who cannot immediately react due to distress. I chose you, because when you lay on a bed for hours at a time, fearing death, you cannot help but look back upon your past and make a spectacle of every sweet moment of serendipity. It just so happens that one of my fondest memories is that of the two of us swimming in the pond by your prairie house; I felt my dying heart yearn for you. Do you remember? Poison oak mantled our arms and legs; the bittersweet taste of that weekend was incredibly enticing, and I allowed myself to partake in a strange sort of pleasure that only I could derive from this situation.
I once heard that with each death, a library is lost. The person’s name from whom I heard it escapes me, but at the very moment I picked up my pen, the thought came to me that perhaps, I could manage to salvage a page or two of my library. The idea brought me comfort in my hopeless circumstance, and I began to write.
After I was taken to the clinic, the nurses did their best to ease my symptoms. Even so, all they could do was treat me as they saw fit, acting with improvisation on their prior experience. There's no found cure yet, I’ve heard. I lay on the bed, concentrating on the wailing of aching children, the raucous breaths of hacking elders, the blood rising from the depths of their throats and nose. I observed petrified expressions, pondering who would be the next fatality, and selfishly begging it not to be myself.
This clinic has rapidly transformed into a morgue, Ben. Crimson gore is so common on the floor that the entire staff wears rubber boots to avoid getting their feet soaked. I'm surprised more people haven't bled to death already, though many have drowned, I suspect, in their own. There's an awful case of what seems like pneumonia in this particular virus; it suffocates patients until they turn blue and purple. They writhe and slither on their bed, trying to free themselves of the internal rope slowly and painfully strangling them to death. It is quick, but no less terrifying with every passing soul. I only hope that mine goes to a haven.
I lay here for a day now, praying, making my peace with God. I feel cheated out of life; I haven't experienced all that I deserve to. I should’ve seen far beyond what I have, but that’s beside the point. My oncoming death, in a sense, has allowed me to look farther beyond my years than any other experience has. It’s both a curse and a gift, though the curse aspect of the situation certainly outweighs the latter.
Spirits are low and fevers are high, my friend, but I’ve made my peace with the world, and with God. I pray I’ve done well by you, and I bid you a final and profligate farewell.
Your forlorn cousin,
Travis Kinsley
September 22, 1918
Dear Uncle Darius,
Word has reached me recently of Travis's passing, and I’m truly sorry for your loss. The news is extremely tragic, and I hope you will find comfort in the days to come through your memories and the concern and care of your friends.
Travis was a remarkable boy; a truly scintillating individual, and he died much too young at the age of fifteen. I assure you, however, that he knew his days were numbered, and he left the earth without a debt going unpaid.
Several days after I was contacted via telephone about Travis, I received a letter. He had written it a day before his death, apparently. It was rambling mostly. There was a description of the hospital, and he shared some final thoughts, as well as some descriptions of the patients' symptoms, which made my stomach churn with disgust. Several of them were so vivid, that I've left them out of the copy I sent to you, as you'll soon notice. It was unbelievable that one of his age could write so placidly about his oncoming death.
I hope your family survives the hard years ahead, and I wish you well.
My condolences,
Benjamin O'Dwyer
