For this essay, my goal should have been to write about an experience made of a few memories to describe a larger idea. My essay has no truth or real memories in it, but my goal was just to write about something that interests me and relates to a topic that I find myself focussed on frequently. In this essay, I am proud of how focussed I was on description and how I related the topic of my essay to an idea that many people find themselves relating to. In the future, I’d like to give myself more brainstorming time and time to outline the complete contents of the essay before writing it.
What I can’t remember constantly alludes to what I do. An unmistakingly vivid image that I can see in this state is that of dogs. My dog, small and unintimidating, doesn’t bite. He nibbles. But I don’t see my own dog, I see strays. Dirty, wounded, aggressive strays, with patches of fur either missing or tangled. What stands out are their teeth. Long fangs dripping with infectious slobber, canines just itching to sink into their next meal, or in this case, their next victim.
They roam and they fight with each other, scratching and biting as if each of them doesn’t already have a death sentence, as if they don’t care about dying alone as well as in pain. These dogs know nothing but aggression, feel nothing but fear and pain. Some drag one or two legs, some froth at the mouth, and none of them know why. These dogs aren’t my memories, just images, for I’ve never met them. I have however met a bat who must have had similar tendencies, I remember him well. I may never know why or how the chance of meeting him fell upon me, but I only think of that question now.
It’s late, another restless night. My broken door stands ajar showing off the black hallway behind it. I get sleepier, my eyes shut and I listen to my air conditioner rumble, a comforting sound. All of the sudden it changes, something is added to the ambience, a terribly annoying squeak. I shut the machine off and feel the stream of cold air on my wrist, and the sound simmers before coming to a stop. It’s silent but only for a few seconds before I hear it again, this time reidentifying the squeak as a chirp. It would drive me crazy. I open my windows trying to swat birds off of the ledges, but find no culprit, and the chirping continues. I check around the corners of my room for signs of rodents, but the chirping continues, and for some reason I cannot follow the sound. I lay back in bed, frustrated, looking at the ceiling. There’s more chirping, and I decide to push the drop tiles up and examine the crawl spaces in the ceiling. There it is, a bat.
I had thought it was cute, wrapped in its fleshy wings. My idea was that if he could get in he could get out, so why would I worry too much. I opened my window in case he wanted to fly out that way instead of however he’d gotten in, and went to sleep, trying to let the air conditioner block the chirping out. Eventually I slept and the next morning there was no chirping, the bat was gone. He’d left something for me to remember him by though, a bite. Two tiny fang marks and warm blood drops sat on my hand painlessly, gradually growing in inflammation. I was just happy, relieved even, to have him gone.
As I lay here some time later in delirium and seize, I wish that I’d been more careful. When the hydrophobia set in, and I could no longer look at a glass of water, I regretted many things. Some related to my lack of care, the others were about karma. I can’t remember what it’s like to have a cold glass of water, and I don’t know the experience of appreciation, that of which all of us should feel for the things we have, and don’t have. The agony I feel is only amplified by these straps, but it is made unbearable by these thoughts. I drool and froth at the mouth like the dogs in my rabid visions, not able to swallow, not able to recover. Before falling into a coma I’d like to come to terms with the unbelievable end that my short life is coming to, believe that I haven’t lived like someone who doesn’t deserve rabies. Know that if I’d just slept in another room that night, this wouldn’t have happened, but accept that I slept in my bed for a reason, probably.