Diseased by Jeremy Perry Page A

I’ve been in here with the people who have contracted the disease. Time, for me, has become a mangled, splashing sea of lost memories, ones that I’ll probably never recover. But I don’t think too much about it anymore, especially today. The people in the white uniforms tell me that today is my birthday. I don’t know my age, but I do know I’m old. The man in my shaving mirror tells me this often, as he had done earlier.
    “Carter Lynch,” he said. “Your face reminds me of a piece of ancient leather. You’re old and washed up. On the brink of insanity. In the midst of a slow, agonizing death.”
    “Maybe,” I said. “But I’m not listening to you. You won’t corrupt my thinking today. Today is my birthday.” I wiped the shaving cream from my face and walked away. He’d always been the negative type, that man in the mirror.
    I picked up the cards and restacked them on the table. Not long after, I went venturing out of my room, looking for something to appease my time and warrant myself of a grand birthday. And, like most mornings, I decided quickly on what it was that I wanted to do.
    The living room, as it was called on our ward, seemed pleasant today, more than usual. There was a scent of vanilla in the air, telling me the housekeeper had come and gone. Clarence and Daryl watched another episode of Bonanza on the big screen. Though, I’ve always thought that they were probably not watching at all—being oblivious to the horses, to the shootouts, to Lorne Greene’s deep baritone voice. After breakfast, the people in the white uniforms always led them both there, dropping them off to be forgotten, to soil themselves, eventually.
    I walked to the service counter where a tray of doughnuts and bagels and the orange juice machine were sitting. Not everyone on my ward has this privilege, to help himself at the service counter. I’ve earned that right throughout my years here. Most residents see the orange juice machine and the coffee maker sitting next to it as a threat of some sort, with the sloshing and percolating. I’ve seen many residents freeze with fear, or retreat and cry out in agony. I used to do it myself, but time and rational thinking have cured me of that. Although, sometimes when I walk away, I’ll look over my shoulder to make sure the machine doesn’t decide to follow me. Only to make sure, of course.
    I poured a glass of juice and grabbed a bagel from the tray. When I stepped from the service counter, I nearly ran into Pat, the housekeeper.
    “Good morning, Carter,” she said. She had her usual rag slung over her right shoulder, ready to do battle with any mess that came her way.
    I jumped a little and said, “Good morning, Pat. I see you’ve been busy this morning. The ward looks very clean.”
    “Thank you,” she said. She stepped around me, grabbed the rag from her shoulder, and wiped the splatter of orange juice and coffee from the counter. I’ll admit, every time a mess occurred, whether big or small, Pat would be there on the spot to clean it. I’m certain she had some innate ability to detect clutter and muck. An incredible ability to have, and appropriate for a housekeeper.
    “Going out to the duck pond this morning?” she asked.
    “Oh, yes,” I said. “I wouldn’t miss saying hello to my feathered friends. Mrs. Duck should be hatching her ducklings any day now. It’s an exciting time.”
    “Yes. I’m sure it is,” she said. “You enjoy your day.” And as I began to walk away, she said, “Happy birthday, Carter.”
    “Thank you,” I said with a sincere smile.
    I made my way out the front door and into a cool, but sunny morning. Even though today was my birthday, I was unsure of the day or month. Maybe late March or early April.
    There was a brisk breeze that slipped through my open robe that made me reconsider coming outside. But I drudged on. I walked down to the duck pond and took a seat on the weathered bench, where I had always come to admire the