old article on the influenza

Doctor Leopold Perriwinkle, noted influenza expert, ill-human anthropologist and snake oil salesman of the 1820's put forth the following influenza timeline. i keep a copy in my breastpocket so in the event that i am ill i will know precisely how it (or i) will transpire.


My Dearest Evelyn,

i write you from my make-shift office in the jungles of the darkest continent on earth. i fear this may be my last letter. my situation has taken a turn for the worse, but for science sake, perhaps for the better. i have the influenza. fates be damned! i have decided that in order to properly document how this dreadful illness transpires, i shant take medications which would only serve to disrupt the illness's ascent. my effort to document this influenza, is to serve posterity. a noble but deadly effort. a living record as this deadly sickness racks my body with pain. i will always love you. do kiss troy for me. i only wish we had him when we were younger. we would have had that much more time to enjoy the tyke. by i digress. i am ill, i must put away this pen, my hand trembles so.

day one: i awake in the middle of the night to find i have the queerest draining in my throat. it leaves my throat feeling raw. i get up and sip from my water vessel. the water tastes odd and i notice upon further inspection that there are not one but 3 dead flies floating in it. One is dead. belly up. and the second and third appear to be making love to one another (on top of the water) truly amazing.

day two: i am full of want and whoah as i wake and notice the pain in my throat was not some night time apparition but was in fact real and remains quite intact. it feels as though my throat is leaking as though somehow it has been scratched with a rusty fork.

day three: my african servant don-don gives me the most queer look when i pass him in the lieu. i rush to the kitchen to see my reflection on a broken piece of mirror which sets just above the shrunken head display on the shelf. my eyes look vacant. i have the distinct feeling that the draining of the previous days has diminished, but in its place i am left with the most painful pressure in my facial area. it feels as if the area behind my face has been pumped full of maggots.

day four: i feel somehow as if the pressure has increased to the point of unbearable pain. and yet, i feel strangely sublime. i lie in bed and wait for the mercy of sweet death.

day five: the pressure remains. i find myself either pacing the grounds wearing nothing but my night shirt and night cap or lying in a ball in the corner of my room.

day six: i rewrote my will today on a piece of parchment. don-don my african servant had me pierce my thumb then we sealed it with blood. i dont know what i wrote, feeling that i faded in and out of consciousness several times. in fact, i don't know if i even have a servant name don-don.

day eight: i might be surviving this cursed illness. i am beginning to cough which will hopefully purge myself of the vileness within. i nearly asked don-don to mix me a healing concoction, but decided against, remembering, as if a vision my oath to take this illness to what ever location it take me, whether it be the ganges or the sweet sawanee river, my soul is dedicated to take it where it may.

day ten: the cough is only now producing the mucus. it is yellow to yellow-green in hue. i feel maniacal as i try to cough up as much as possible. i am currently trying to fill a coconut shell with the fluid. when, nay if i recover, i shall be delighted to study this creamy and rather lumpy yellow green soup under a microscope.

day twelve: the phlegm has been reduced to little more than the occasional clear, yellow variety with occasional spots of blood. it is no longer worthy of my collecting as it lacks the robust color and substance of my previous days mucus.

day eighteen: thank be to the God and the heavens, I feel as though i have climbed out of the stinkikng stench hole of hades itself. i am again amongst the living.