A late silence suffused the night of the sparse town, and its members drifted into a deep slumber as the hymns of crickets carried the night away. One of the town's members, plagued with unrest, lurked the corridors of his home, preparing a remedy to ease the pain of his dying mother.
His calloused hands rested on one of many medical tools that he had used to grind the herbs into powder. He used scales, mortar, and pestle sets to ensure her necessary dosage. He boiled it and let it simmer into a tea which he neatly placed onto a metal tray. However, when it was time for treatment, he staggered and refused to leave his candle-lit desk in fear that his mother would draw her final breath.
His name was Baryonis and a cruel fate had been engrossed in his destiny which only he can tell.
Her condition rivals that of a street dog. Her wails forbode it. Her excessive panting, choking, coughing, and wheezing leave me burdened beneath my tattered sheets. My mother, oh my mother whom I so dearly love, I cannot imagine her leaving me, but I wish that she rather goes in peace than let the plague-boils cling on to her life. I bear witness to how her hands began to rot and how her boils, the size of apples, would randomly burst and leak their black contents before congealing again.
I rose from my desk and with the remaining confidence found in my quaking knees, I walked down the wooden corridor. I knocked upon her door and with a sweetness emerging from her parched throat she said, "Come in, there is no need to be so formal." I entered her chamber and I was reminded of how the room had been saturated with the smell of incense, and a diverse plethora of herbs personally picked from our garden. As she sat up, I placed the tray on her lap and sat down beside her.
She reached out.
attempting to place her hand upon my thigh, which I only jerked away upon further inspection of her decaying palms. Her gaze was so piteous. She looked as if she had been betrayed, rejected, and abandoned. The thought feasted on me like a den of maggots and without regard for my safety, I immediately cupped my hands around hers to provide her with closure. However, she merely smiled and brushed my cloth-wrapped hands away as if she understood my conflict.
My heart sank and felt that same rejection.
Being seated, powerless to combat her illness, is a feeling I'm accustomed to, but the thought still lingers in my mind, do I just watch her suffer?
Despite her case of relentless coughing, I bent my ear to her stories, looked at how she laughed and even admired her vast knowledge regarding the histories brewing in the royal court.
It always left me bewildered as to how she knew so much about the history of aristocrats.
But alas, It was our nightly routine that would come to an end after watching her place her empty cup back onto the tray, and let her persecute me with complaints about how bitter the tea was.
It was a humorous argument that always seemed to leave a smile on her face. I wanted to savor the moment, let it remind me of the time when joy seemed to be abundant.
However, the thought only made it difficult to remove the roots of nostalgia keeping me anchored in my seat. With dwindling strength, I graced my farewell by taking her tray and shutting her door behind me.
Despite her numerous claims that she feels more relieved from her illness, I am deeply troubled that her condition continues to decline. So is it wrong for me to snuff out the last little flicker of life in her decaying body?
Think of it.
When the leg of a horse becomes disjointed it is often encouraged by the groom to put it to rest. The reason thereof is simply due to the small chance of recovery and the tremendous sense of shock and pain that the horse has to bear. Nevertheless, who are we to deduce that a life is worth taking? We were not gifted with such rights and neither was the groom.
Thus, the decision weighs heavy upon my conscience. Her chances are paltry and many of those who turned to the church were daunted when its priests and bishops became victims of the disease. She might rest peacefully if I increased her dosage, I am aware that a horse would. However, it is a choice to suffer the guilt of murder or to suffer the guilt of watching one suffer. I know that the righteous will survive, which is true since the pope also became a victim of the illness,he always seemed lecherous at heart.
Nevertheless, instead of worrying about the specks of dust lingering in the eyes of others, I should worry about the plank stuck in my own, and drift myself to sleep.