Acts and Absolution

A Duty and More

The fire died and turned to a soft pygmy. Its heat dwindled and now the warmth from the room dissipated. The rough coldness from the outside scratched against the house and its chill set it.

Mendoza sat in his chair and tapped against his leg-slow and rhythmic.

Finally noticing the dead warmth, he got up and limped. With a gesture of his hand, he rekindled the flame.

He leaned against a wall and breathed with precision. Otherwise, a pain would dart through his chest and leave him heaving. Still there was an acute, prickling stab.

He pulled his body toward the counter in the kitchen.

He stretched to grab onto the ledge and  looked at the cracked watch on his wrist and proceeded to pull out the bottle of pills.

He took two and drank a glass of water. He closed his eyes for a few seconds. The thumping began; the drumming began. His eyes shot wide open. He staggered to the sink; cupping his mouth and vomiting. Mendoza grabbed his silver necklace. He did not open the safe this time.

As he let go, Mendoza wiped his face with a cloth and looked at his hands with warped vision.

He fiddled with his necklace and stared outside to the backyard. He picked up all the guck and disgust that was his body and went through the back door of the house, trudging through the black wintery ashes.

The keys would not enter and turn, until finally it went in. Mendoza closed the door behind him and cast a sign that caused the candle to flicker. He picked one up and walked further into the clinical stench. His stomps echoed against the wall as his breath fogged up in the air.

At the end was all his medical equipment: tweezers, medicinal herbs, stethoscope, and various other instruments. Blue vials hanged on the wall; accompanied with others of its kind.

Mendoza pressed a small button. All the equipment in front of him retracted into the walls. The shack metamorphized into a giant library crossed over with a lab. These were relics from another time. He traced his fingers trying to find the exact text he needed. He flipped through and stopped.

"An infection that inflames the alveoli...signs and symptoms: chest pain, difficulty breathing, etc...."

Under the desk he sat, he pulled out an empty vial and then began concocting a prototype vaccination.

In the end, it turned blue like the rest of the hanging vials. He got out a marker and tape and wrote on it. Then he placed it with the rest.

He grabbed a small bottle of a purple liquid and poured it over his hands and face to clean off all the dirt and grime. He grabbed a darker purple and lathered it over his face and ribs. Somewhat feeling better, Mendoza softly pressed his hands over them. He grimaced. A few at least.

He stood up and walked back to the house and there he found Donovan reading by the kitchen.

He was a tall and skinny young man who looked scraggly when compared to his already somewhat slender father. But by no means was he weak. He was 130 pounds of lean muscle and could knock a tooth out of someone if they weren't careful, but to the eyes of the father he was just his son.

Donovan's black hair curled weakly while his aggressive eyes traced over the pages with an intense and curious gleam.

The light came in from the window and pressed against Mendoza's face. Bags crept from under his eyes and the forever creased forehead for once softened

Donovan stole a meek glance at his father

"Dad," he said.

"Yes, Donovan?"