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Brendan Keane was not a well man.
It had begun on that first day behind the white-washed walls—a slight soreness in his stomach every two hours or so—and it had only continued to stoke and burn until every breath made him writhe in torment. The mere thought of food convulsed his throat with cold, thick pools of vomit. A few sips of water was all he could manage, and that too had become a losing battle. His entire body ached constantly. His hands shook.
Christ, even his bowls had lost all sense of consistency.
In spite of the wreaking odour of medicinal disinfectants, he had been contaminated; infested by billions of multicellular organisms.
Ruthless little bastards.
The only blessing could be found in the excuse to remain in the same set of clothing for several days at a time. Such simplicity was salvation from the nightmare of trembling fingers fumbling to do up his shirt buttons. A necktie was out of the question, just as it took more energy to continuously pull his tweed jacket on than it did to casually drape it over his shoulders. Only on special occasions did he force his limp arms through the sleeves.
Special occasions like a visit from Lawrence.
He had been able to hide from her. Not completely, of course—she was not so easily fooled—but certain symptoms were easily blamed on other, less serious ailments. Indigestion. Food sickness. Age.
A searing fire shot through his abdomen; forcing him forward as the nausea surged up his burning throat. It was a constant war of wills. Even the smallest amount of water made his stomach churn.
Relieving himself was of no help either.
It only caused greater agony in the disquieting pit of his belly.
Keane gingerly laid back as best he could on the concrete bench, folded his arms over his rebelling organs, and stuffed his crumpled jacket beneath the vertebrae of his lower back.
He was well aware the motion was futile.
No sleep would come.
Should he be in a proper bed—sinking comfortably into a mattress—his exhausted body was incapable of finding rest. If it wasn’t the biting pain tearing through his stomach, it was a rebellion in his bowls. If it wasn’t his bowls, it was the cold.
God, it was cold.
It could have been hours or minutes between the time his heavy eyelids slid shut and the moment the knives slicing through his midsection churned and grated into something more pressing.
Keane immediately heaved himself up from the bench; bowing over his tender abdomen. One hand pressed to the wall for balance. The other splayed across his stomach. Quick breaths were all he could manage.
Quick breaths to swallow back the bile and nausea.
In. Out. In. Out. In.
Eventually, he felt control slip back into his hands that his suit was in no danger; laying back once more upon the concrete slab provided by His Majesty. The knives in his stomach lessened to needles, though still infinitely painful, and the growing lassitude in his limbs was more than enough to solidify a self-diagnosis.
He didn’t think it would come so quickly.
Often it took years to appear; a gradual worsening, rather than the Ides of March.
Had it been fifteen years before, Keane would not have hesitated in accepting his fate.
Two decades prior, he might have encouraged it.
But now?
As marriages went, Lawrence was hardly typical. She did not, thank God, cook his meals. Nor did she fetch his slippers. Nor did she tidy the trails of manuscripts and ash he was prone to create.
Did she even know how to use the hoover?
Keane doubted it.
But she could throw. And run. And think.
Good lord, how she could think. No situation was too great for her intellect, and any self-respecting philosopher must admit her insight far superior to most.
Lawrence would be alright.
Of that, there could be no doubt.
An explosion of feverish agony struck the centre of his body once again; roaring through every inch of his torso before settling around his internal organs.
It was funny, really.
Keane had always thought it would be the cigarettes.