Killing Me Softly

It was dark. The curtains were drawn, and all but a thin crack of light was blocked. By the window stood a tall figure.

The man dragged the curtains open to reveal the large, ornate room filled with mahogany furniture.

The walls are lined alternately with taxidermied animals, and bookshelves on which sit a variety of old, dusty books. There was also a Grandfather clock with a loud tick echoing through the room.

A large glass in one hand and a cigar in another, Vlahul stared intently at the clock.

From a nearby door entered a pale man, clad in a old checked shirt and carrying a small briefcase and a half-eaten sandwich.

"Your lunch has arrived."

"(Not turning away) Set it down on the table."

"Yes, sir". The thin, weak man dropped the briefcase on the floor, gently placed the sandwich on a stained plate and scurried away.

Vlahul was I.

Turning around to look out of the window, I can see a city of red bricks, or a red city should the thick smoke and ash permit it. A bearded tramp in a tattered blue top and odd shoes shuffled his way to the clinic. Coughing violently, it was obvious that he was gasping for air.

Everyone knew it. No one could avoid it.

It was too late. Everyone had to face the inconvenient truth. The world is in crisis. Environmental activists try their best to reduce the effect. No matter how hard they try, it will never end. People die every second. I will too.

Soon.

Couldn't the damned fools leave the forest alone? Keep the rivers free and running? Stop the senseless burning?

I flung the glass across the room. The sherry vacated the glass in the most unclean manner, leaving splashes of the alcoholic beverage across the carpet.

The pollution is killing me.