DNR and the Rag Rug

The compulsion that led me to this impending grizzly end could be described as kindness, but I would not describe it as such. It is fair to say that deeply entrenched in most humanity is an immutable loneliness, but from whence this loneliness springs is hard to establish. Many of the “great” psychologists have written extensively about such things.

I have neither the time nor the patience to sift through these thoughts because I am newly infested.

This infestation is eating me alive. More to the point, and to add to the humor of the whole situation, this infestation is eating me alive from my feet up. Thus far, it remains low, close to the ground, around the heel and toe. This location is no grace. I am left only to imagine what this wriggling will feel like when these creatures reach…some of the more interesting vital bits. It is painless thus far, but let’s say uncomfortable. I always imagined I would be a suicide, but unfortunately, even with this current state of things, I remain reluctant to end my life. It is curious and gives me pause. I don’t feel the need to pontificate too much on the subject of suicide, as others have done it better. I will say that being able to scrawl the circumstances of this unfortunate death is bittersweet.

All of this transpired because of a compulsion. I offered my unique brand of self-destructive kindness to a stranger.

He would sleep in the porta-potty inside the fenced-off area of that never-ending construction project across the street. Everyone in town called him “DNR.” I never learned his real name. I am sure he had one, once. Some days he could walk, and other days he would literally crawl from place to place. The summers were brutal, and the winters were cold enough. Spring and autumn suited him just fine, I guess. The story about his injury was something like: he was hit by a car, and both of his legs were shattered. He never got them set or went to the hospital. What remained of his legs functioned sometimes. I only guessed at what the determining factors of his mobility were, but I imagined weather, atmospheric pressure, or the drugs and alcohol in his system. A mobility system that functioned on chemical factors; it sounds extreme when I put it that way, but it is true of all of us, to some extent.

I lived alone, and outside of work, I never really spoke with anyone; my friends, family, and other acquaintances were either in emotional exile or dead. This type of existence leads to loneliness, and those all-too-human conventions start to pull one towards some connection.

The first time I caught DNR sleeping in my car, I felt violated, and I was probably a little too gruff with him. I was also frightened. That whole fear of someone hiding in the back seat of your car was very real at that moment. I stopped short of threatening him, but I raised my voice and cursed.

One thing that really irritates me is when an individual believes that I exist as an extension of their mental illness and not as an autonomous expression of my own. So, the next time I saw DNR crawling around, I went over to introduce myself. He expressed, in his own unique way, that he was aware of my existence and essentially knew of my coming and goings. I suppose when you have nothing to do all day, you tend to notice things. I also think it is interesting what bits of information stuck with him. I assumed that some of this was linked to a past criminal inclination, but his body was unable to commit physical crimes...most of the time. This lack of ambulatory function didn’t change the previous level of pattern recognition he must have had.

Our formal introduction took place in early spring, and from this point forward, we were on a head-nod level of acquaintance. DNR never panhandled or begged for anything. I figured he probably had some financial support system. It is always hard to know whether his level of exposure was forced or chosen. The reason I think he might have had a home to return to was that occasionally he would have a change of clothes or a six-pack of tall boys. I’ve never had to receive disability checks, but I believe they require a mailing address. A bank account wasn’t necessary because there were a lot of check-cashing places around.

All this digression is just to set the scene for how DNR and I started spending more time together, and how I wound up in my current predicament.

I can feel the infestation creeping north...or…I can. They apparently work quite quickly when not confined to an original host body. I wonder if DNR was uniquely immune to this sort of thing, or if I am uniquely susceptible. The ramifications of this wonder are sure to have importance when these parasites reach the general population.

I am not equipped to answer my own questions. I am also unconcerned; my altruism or love of humanity doesn’t extend much beyond myself. I held out hope that I was a better person, but as I am slowly being consumed, I have come to realize not only that I am, as previously mentioned, a coward, but I am pathologically callous. If I had loved ones in the vicinity, I would of course warn them, and try not to spread this infestation further, but as far as the general rabble is concerned, what happens to them doesn’t mean a lick of shit to me.

It was three steps down from that short porch to the cracked concrete. Summer in this city was brutal. The city was built on a swamp, and the mix of heat and humidity made everything unbearable. So, on the first excessively humid day as I was leaving for work, I wasn’t surprised to see DNR slumped over on the bottom step of my porch. My guts were pinging up a hunger storm, and I was already running late, so I didn’t stop to sort out this whole who-can-sit-where business. I gave DNR a permissive nod, and he registered it despite his seeming unconsciousness. I could never get the hang of what he was actually saying. He had no real teeth, and his accent was a mix of that Florida fast talk and Virginia lazy-south drawl.

It all sounded like GARBA FARBA CHN to me.

I didn’t kick him off my porch, and that began the real relationship.

I believed my threshold was the front door, but by the time I even came to that conclusion, the threshold was breached.

Periodically through that summer and fall, DNR would inch closer to the inside of my house. I didn’t mind, but I was aware of the encroachment. We would spend summer evenings just sitting on the porch together. I would share a six-pack with him, and he would mumble some incoherent bullshit. I never felt the need to laugh or respond. We were both just happy with the company. Everyone else in the neighborhood would let him crawl around or skulk about without so much as offering a glass of water or any other kindness. I thought it was odd, but understood that they all had their own lives to live, and maybe they knew better than I did…in hindsight, they most certainly did. When the inevitable cooler months hit, I saw less of him, until this evening, when his inching towards my entrance became…entrance, and my life, for all intents and purposes, ended.

Innocently enough, DNR rested on my wingback armchair. I don’t know that he was fully aware of the plague he carried.

I don’t know how conscious he was of anything, come to think of it. How much of him was man at this point?

I let a lot of things slide because of my middle-class naivety and saviour guilt.

His sneakers looked new. This could easily be explained by some combination of charity and legs that don’t work. Around the white soles of these sneakers, I began to see what I thought were floaters. You know those tiny black dots that appear through fatigue or malnutrition. These black dots were swirling around his feet with great rapidity.

I shifted the focus of my eyes to get them to stop. I looked at DNR, possibly for the first time. I made eye contact with him. His left eye was shut, and his right eye was fixed wide. I could see the off-white sclera above and below the iris. His lips were curled upwards, but not in a grin; they were curled in a sneer, and his near toothless mouth was oozing a cloudy red ichor, like his gums were dripping off his face. I thought he had had a stroke or some other kind of synaptic revolt. I stood up and called him, but nothing changed. I went to approach, but with my first step, my foot slipped.

In between our two seats was a small rag rug. Moments ago, it was dirty and old but quite intact; what I saw now under my feet was nothing but shredded tatters and thousands of swirling black dots.

I scurried backwards away from the remains of my rug, but it was too late. The infestation had taken hold. DNR remained unflinching in his catatonic state, but he moved his arms mechanically. These arms clicked down and began lifting one leg of his pants. The flesh beneath was black and ulcerous; it was dead, decayed flesh, but it was also alive with thousands of small, moving dots. They began flowing towards the ground and rising towards his face and head. I grabbed the closest blunt instrument I could find: a long, wrought iron poker, and I swung it at his unblinking eye and oozing gums. When the poker made contact, DNR’s head exploded like a milkweed pod. Silken red strings shot in all directions, forming web-like constructs. Thousands of black specs sprinted to the floor like a static downpour. I saw my shoes and pant legs covered and speckled.

They all darted low. I was doomed.

At this point in the narrative, I sat down at this desk and began to write this out. I prodded at my legs a bit. Still no pain, but they will no longer work for walking in the traditional way. My legs have the tactile consistency of a bruised mealy apple.

As I finish up here, I am also becoming aware that I have misjudged this infestation. They can consume both organic and inorganic material. They can do this at a rapid pace; right now, they chose not to. I am not to be devoured. Like DNR before me, I will serve as host.

The lack of an instant global catastrophe does not help ease my…somehow shrinking despair. I have a strange desire to drag myself outside…It is quite cold though…Spring will come around…soon enough…I gotta wait a bit…I gotta get out there. Perhaps I will head out in the Spring. That will suit me just fine.