How the Streetlamps Burn

DAY II

The morning came in slow and painful. Last night had been worse.

I figured I would take the couch I had initially discovered my friend upon. I had put him to bed. Next to him I had placed a porcelain bowl that would catch what food I fed him that he couldn’t keep down. The drops I gave him hadn’t shown real or extraordinary results. However, they really hadn’t had the time. I’d know of their effect by the end of today. I was sure of it.

I spent the hours of the day immersed in books I had found of interest in my friend’s study. Books on the history and geography of this region peaked my interest the most. He had quite the collection, too. There were even books depicting prehistoric predictions of the climate of this place millions of years ago. Such a wild and treacherous place these illustrations contained herein described. Trees that were as tall as the sky, ferns with fronds and stalks larger than any man, alive or dead. Insects, too. Flies were not of mere, puny size but large and capable of inflicting serious wounds. But that was not the concern, as I discovered whilst progressing through this tome. There were beasts of such magnitude that they could block out the sun by their very size alone; beasts with long, sharp, twisted teeth and powerful jaws that proclaimed their stature and dominance amongst all others of their age. Surely, I thought, as I closed the book, these things could have lived forever. What, by means of heaven or earth, could have blighted these monsters and struck down such powerful things? A mystery I was fairly new to, but that was all-too-familiar to man.

My friend stirred and moaned in the next room just then, taking with him my thoughts on this subject. I arose from a relaxed posture to tend to him. He was lying on his side, dried vomit dotted the sheets by the bowl. His glass of water was almost empty, and his food dish was almost full. I looked at both carefully, and then at him.

“I, I tried t-to eat something, Styles. Bu-but I couldn’t k-keep it down.”

I looked at the clock on his dresser. It had been at least four hours since he took medicine.

“When did you try to eat?” I looked at him and at the clock again, further noting the time.

“I-I think, about a-an hour ago?”

“Okay,” I replied. “Let’s try to eat something in a couple of hours. How’s your stomach feeling?”

“I-It still hurts. B-but, it-it’s a little better, I guess.”

I nodded in sympathy and took his glass of water to the kitchen. I filled it up and brought it back and placed it on his dresser within reach, where it was before.

“Keep drinking this, it should help with your stomach.”

He nodded in agreement, grabbed the glass feebly, and took a sip.

I ventured back into the study and grabbed a new book. A new adventure awaited inside.

About an hour and a half later, I put down my book and checked in on my friend. He had grown more pale and looked thinner. He needed to eat. I ushered him to sit up. I grabbed the bowl of broth I had prepared for him and dipped the spoon in. For a moment we caught eyes. He was thanking me in a way that didn’t require him to speak. Perhaps he didn’t have much strength to. Before, his words warbled and strained. I needed not contest this. He needed to conserve whatever strength he could. This was also reaffirmed by the condition of his eyes. They had dimmed. Once bright and shimmering, they produced but a faint glow, meekly struggling to maintain vitality. My head grew heavy with concern and pity. I looked down at the spoonful of lukewarm broth and brought it to his mouth.

DAY III

I awoke to the light of a new day, not by rooster or crow, but by a deafening

crash that, I fear, may also have awoken the dead. I fell from my place of sleep and landed on the cold, hard wooden floor. I quickly got up and rushed to the perceived source of sound: my friend’s bedroom. And there he was, tangled within the sheets and covers of his bed, sprawled out upon the floor. From the dresser the broth and water had fallen around him. The container of fresh vomit too, was now mixed with the others. Broken glass and shells of bowls created a hazardous barrier between my friend and I. Therefore, I quickly grabbed the necessary instruments to break it down. Hastily, I cleaned up the mess and before the minute was done, I hoisted my friend upon his bed, alertly checking for injuries. To my relief, there were but a few bruises. Nothing was broken. Nothing sprained. Having tended to the worst of it, I dutifully scoured the floor around the bed for any remnants of broken glass and other like hazards. A brief commotion outside drew my attention to the window in my friend’s bedroom. There, as before, was the streetlamp. However, it had not been lit, but remained there, extinguished. Surely passerby’s have noticed it, but as my friend told me, their superstitions drew them to keep so much of a distance that they would cross the street for fear of succumbing to consequence should they pass right by.

I turned to my friend.

“How did you fall off the bed?” My curiosity had finally given in.

“I-I-I was reaching for th-th-the water.” He smiled. “I-I guess I-I missed.”

He let out a sore laugh, but I only smiled in reply. Just then I got an idea.

I walked into the study and searched around for something my eye had caught but the day before. I found it, grabbed it, and brought it into my friend’s bedroom.

“Here,” I said. “Whenever you need anything, water, food, toilet, anything, please use this. I can’t have the burden of any further injuries inflicted upon yourself for efforts of convenience when I’m willing and able and in the next room.”

“A bell?” He looked up at it.

“Yes. A bell. Ring it whenever you need something.” I placed it next to the pillow by his head.

“Okay,” he said, and jokingly tested it. “Thank y-you, S-styles.”

Every couple of hours or so, about the time I would routinely check in on him, my friend would ring the bell and I would fulfill his request. After all the hotels I had stayed in, this place began to feel like one. Only this time, I was the server, the bellhop, the clerk, but I wasn’t getting paid. I didn’t mind and though it was under unfortunate circumstances, it was time well spent. Yet, every time he rang the bell, every time I came responded and saw my friend, he had become worse. So much was my concern on the progression of the degeneration of his health that I once again called for the physician. I explained the case thoroughly to him. My friend now looked skeletal. Not but skin and bone, deteriorating muscle and tissue composed him. His skin was almost as white as the sheets he lay upon. Bruises and legions on his skin now formed and his ribs were almost certainly bruised by newly occurring fits of coughing. Evening wore on and I stayed by my friend’s side more and more as each minute passed.

“The physician will be here as soon as he can. He’s dropped all other obligations and should arrive in the morning. He is a bit out of town, I’m afraid,” I reassured him.

I stayed by his side with candle as my light. The bell had become unnecessary with my being so close, so I placed it on the far side of the room so that he could sleep without rolling over and disturbing his slumber by brushing against it and causing it to ring.

The air was still and silent and my friend was deep in sleep. I read on by candlelight. The evening had passed and nighttime had arrived. Hues of blue eventually disappeared over the horizon, devoured by the blackened colors of a moonless night. Deep in my book my mind crept over the lore of which I fed it. Quite the collection my friend had. Never had I known this side of his mind. Imagination and wonder had been but a scarce topic in our conversations. Dare I say I was disappointed not having known the extent of his collection? Perhaps I was not worthy? Perhaps, in his eyes, I was not ready. With curiosity and fascination peaking I read on. My eyes, practically glued to the words within these forbidden tomes of imagination and mystery, hardly blinked. It was by pure surprise that I let out a scream and grabbed my chest to reassure that my heart was still beating. A sound had broken the still and silent room, a sound much louder and penetrating than before. It was the bell. It rang ever so briefly, but then had stopped. Surely I was imagining such things. With one’s mind deep within such books as these, strange tricks can be played on the psyche. This is surely what had happened. But as I shook off such nonsense and opened the book once more, the bell rang again. Much louder than before, but equally as terrifying. It was there. I looked and saw it on the window sill, untouched by human hand as my friend was on the bed beside me, myself, sitting in this chair beside him.

It was at that moment that I looked over at my friend, who now had shifted his position and lay looking up at me, head upon his pillow. It was then that I looked into his eyes as before and saw this time not even a glint of life or a glimpse of vitality or spirit.

And in this most grieving of confirmations I was then compelled to look out the window and to the lantern that stood extinguished before us. Only at that moment it did change its state and was lit, but not by any man or force known to him. As the light came on, it too burned with a vitality and spirit that my friend once did. Only this time, it burned in a reddened hue, like that of a spark introduced to its first breath of air. I then knew the story my friend told me during our meeting at the pub was true and that such superstitions had now been confirmed.

It was then I knew that my friend was dead.

END