I watched the fleet of vans and trucks outside my window. Men in unwashed, paint-stained undershirts haul dressers, tables, chairs, and just about every piece of furniture imaginable out, and into the house. A white house with yellow trim, a big bright green lawn, and a small wooden fence surrounding the perimeter.
The same white house with yellow trim, a big bright green lawn, and small wooden fence that I've been looking at from my window the past four years.
The same white house with yellow trim, a big bright green lawn, and small wooden fence that folks have moved in and out of, my entire life, without so much as a wave in the driveway when they're out to fetch the morning paper.
The same ones who have never come to say hello or introduce themselves, the same ones who play their music too loud and have parties too late and blow their leaves at six in the morning.
I watched as a young man exited out the front door. His relatively thin frame was disguised by a brown and burnt orange flannel shirt, worn two sizes too big over a white undershirt, the fabric pilling from what looked like decades of use.
The orange tones of his shirt matched the nest of wavy, styled hair that sat on the fence of a dark ginger and light brown. He was tall, probably only a few inches shorter than myself.
He took one end of a mattress and steered it through the doorway, one of the movers hoisting the other.
They moved everything into the house in just an hour and a half. If he's anything like the last seven people who lived there, he'll be back out in months. It's a shame that it goes to waste, really. It's a nice little house, but it never seems to keep a resident. Consequently, I'm not in the habit of making friends with the neighbors. They have their life, I have mine. I don't need anyone interfering with my routine.
I kept on with my day despite the distractions next door. I checked all the appliances, I tidied up, I listened to my music, finished the book I'd been reading. It was like any other day. It was like every other day.
Until someone knocked on the door.
My groceries weren't coming until Monday, I know it's not him, my mail arrives at nine, he's already been here. There wasn't anyone else it could've been. Not anyone I knew, not anyone I associate with.
"Who is it?" I nervously called out through the door
"It's your new neighbor! Just moved in next door!"
With caution, I opened the door for him. He stood on the porch, his hair color quite striking up close. I'd brushed it off earlier, but it was actually quite a sight that I'd overlooked.
"Hi! I'm Connor, Connor McKinley, I live next door." He smiled widely and stuck out his hand to shake
I tugged at and twisted the top button of my shirt, trying to loosen the neck a bit. It felt like it was tightening with every second. I just stared at his extended hand, keeping mine clenched to my side
"I'm Kevin.. you uh.. you look awfully young to be buying a house.."
"I'm renting. It's.. It's crazy cheap, and I'm going to school right over in Farmington, so it's the perfect spot.." he finally let his hand down
"Oh, yeah, the student housing there is... expensive"
"Are you a student there?"
"Me? Oh- no, I'm not.. not a student anywhere.... uh, Is this your first year?"
"No.. no this is my second year here... I lived with some friends right by the campus before.."
"Oh.."
"Yeah.. uh, I'd like to invite you over when things are all settled in, kind of get a homey-feel in the house.. are you busy tomorrow evening?"
"Oh, um.. no, I can't tomorrow.."
"That's fine, no problem, how about Saturday?"
"I can't on Saturday, sorry.."
"No matter.. we'll get together sometime.. it was good to meet you.. if you ever need anything, give me a holler, I'll- here, I'll give you my number. If you ever need anything, you can give me a call.. and maybe we'll find a day to get together" he chuckled awkwardly, grabbing my hand and writing down his phone number on the palm with blue ink.
I bit down on my bottom lip, stiff as a board as he wrote. It took a lot of willpower not to retract the hand on sight.
I don't want this new man to think I was crazy, this is the first time any of the neighbors have even made an effort to talk to me, I don't want to ruin that the minute he meets me.
I read the number aloud back to him, repeating it to myself in my head.
"It was good to meet you.. don't hesitate to give me a call" he smiled and stepped off the porch with his hands in his pockets.
I quickly shut the door, still repeating the numbers in my head while racing to the kitchen sink. I squeezed soap into my hand until it was overflowing, making some sort of mixture, dish soap, and antibacterial, and just started scrubbing with the vegetable brush by the sink. The bristles were sharp and cruel against my skin, but it was the only way I could feel like I was truly removing the ink. So, I kept scrubbing. Scrubbing until my hand was raw, and bloodied, eyes watering and teeth clenched. I held it under the water as it bled.
The last thing I need is something else to wash off my hands. I rinsed the blood away. The number played in my head over and over again like background music as I waited, and even after I had finally written it down.
I kept the hand wrapped in gauze and medical bandage to prevent further issue. With the cooling weather, the skin was drier and cracking, The last thing I want is for my hands to crack or even scrape against the counter, it's just begging for infection. There was a case of necrotizing fasciitis in the state just last year, so if I don't take preventative measures, I'm an idiot.
I've seen it - Blisters, ulcers, black spots on your skin, tissue dying and decaying, it's horrible. One thousand two hundred cases are diagnosed in the states every year, which means if equally divided, there'd be twenty-four in my state alone. Twenty four people, one in each three of whom will die from the bacteria. If untreated, it's six in every ten. That means treated, eight of those infected will die. Untreated, twelve or thirteen.
The bacteria climb into openings as small as bug bites, sometimes not even utilizing any breaks in the skin, and starts to destroy the tissue, muscles, membrane, fat, it eats away at its human host. It could happen to anyone, most cases are in people of good health.
I can almost feel the bacteria on my already broken skin, Crawling, multiplying, searching for a way in. And by god, there are many.
They're already there, I bet. They're already in there, preying on my skin cells, destroying the tissue. I should call the doctor. No, not the doctor, urgent care. Intensive care. What's the most serious, urgent care or intensive care? Intensive, right? I should call intensive care. I could be dying this very moment, I could have contracted flesh-eating bacteria. Some sort of fast-acting one. Is there such a thing? Is that a thing? I really should call the hospital.
My thoughts raced.
I picked up my phone and quickly dialed.
"Hello, this is Kevin Price again"
The woman on the other end of the line sighed, clearly agitated
"What is it this time, Mr. Price?"
"I have reason to believe I've contracted a flesh-eating virus"
"What are your symptoms?"
"No symptoms... it's a feeling, I have a feeling, I can tell"
"Are you experiencing any pain at the site of infection? Any nausea, pus, or discoloration?"
"No.."
"Any signs of infection?"
"No."
"Then why do you believe you've contracted a flesh-eating virus, Mr. Price?"
"I got a cut"
"Is it infected?"
"Not yet"
"When did this happen?"
"Ten minutes ago"
"What's your injury?"
"I scraped my hand... s-skinned it."
"Alright, Mr. Price, then I'm going to have to ask you to hang up. There are people with real emergencies who need to contact us."
"But-"
"Rinse out your cut and contact your primary care if you have any concerns. Have a good day, Mr. Price"
She hung up.
They know me there. I call at least twice a month. Most of them are very short with me, but not all. There's one nurse and one receptionist who were both there when it happened. They saw it firsthand, they watched it happen. They're both very patient. The other people on that shift are all gone; Moved on to other hospitals, practices, medical schools, and retirement. Everyone else that was there that night has moved on and been replaced.
Every time I call them, I find myself praying that it's that receptionist that will answer. Kristen. She always patches me through to Adelaide, the night nurse that I seem to have adopted in as some sort of maternal figure. Between her forties and fifties, short and heavier-set, she comes over often to check in on me. She was a great comfort. Actually, the only comfort. And to me, she's clean. Very clean.