It is an inevitable part of healthcare that one will hear very sad or terrible stories. Human life is both a wonder and a blunder of creation. Moments that make you cry with hope or shake with anger are sometimes walking with their arms linked. Thank the Powers That Be that I am not in charge of any of it. 

Today, a man came in with a supposed change in mental status. The neighbors had not seen this man or his wife for some time when they noted a foul smell emanating from their apartment. The police were called, fearing the worst. When they opened the door, they were met with the man snuggled with his decomposing wife on the floor. The man was covered in sweat, excrement and had pressure sores on his body at each point that met the hardwoods. The medics were called and pried the two apart, bringing the man–delirious and screaming–to the hospital.

I realize that we are all met with ethical dilemmas. Most people need to choose between whether it is ok to butt in line, or whether or not you tell your spouse that you switched buying the brand name for something cheaper, or such trivial things. When you have no family–and I use that word loosely–and have clearly no will to live on after everything you have lived for is gone, what is our responsibility to another human? In lieu of sounding Kevorkian, I would hope that, when an age is reached that I am ready to give in and let go, that those fuckers would just let me be. Contemplating things like these could definitely take you far down into the wormholes of thought. 

So, it was that I thought of the actual horrors of this grisly picture that the medics must have come upon while I walk back home to my New York apartment in the middle of the night after my shift. That, and thinking about American Horror Story: Cult, which I am watching. Clowns and needless terrorisms abound. I am amused that I allow myself to be slightly freaked out with the small shifts in the shadows all around me on this Fall day. Nevermind that kid on the bike zooming by who is rapping about murder at the top of his lungs. I step into the streetlights of a small thoroughfare that is on my way home, settling into my pace as the lights wax and wane in their line of linked illumination above me. There is rarely a person on the streets anywhere near this abandoned store where I tread.

A random pile of trash is piled under one of the lights. It is as if someone gutted a large trash bag and left the varied innards in a thick-lined pile at the base of the light. As I approach, I note that the pile of spilled trash resembles the length and width of a shallow grave and takes the shape as if someone is lying there. But, they would be totally covered in trash. What person would do that–especially at this time of night? Not even a bum or weirdos with their pop-up art projects. No way. Not in this neighborhood. I keep my eyes steady on the pile as I try to keep my pace and pretend that I am not seeing that shape. It is just a trick of my eyes and I am just stressed after work. Nonetheless, I think about–if something moves–what can I use to smash it in the head that is near me? Maybe I can be quick and choke them with the straps of my work backpack if someone comes at me? Who am I kidding? James Bond, I am not. The wind picks up and shifts the lighter junk on top of the trash pile just as the train goes above me in a clatter. It blows the horn with a resonant MEEEEEP! that seems to go right through me. My focus snaps up to the train when the noise makes me jump. Apparently, I am expecting the train to attack me from above. Thank you, PTSD. 

Then, I remember the humanoid trash pile coming up in front of me and jolt my vision back down with a slamming heartbeat. The pile is now standing upright, and is, indeed, in the shape of a large man. It is slightly hunched with both arms held a bit away from it’s body at its sides, and I see what appears to be the rise and fall of shoulders with each breath like when you leave a video game character standing still. I blink at it as a brick of fear hits my stomach, but I am still walking towards it. My eyes widen to see if this is real, still unbelieving of what is in front of me. I now cannot deny that it is moving toward me. Clumsy from fear, my stride is shortened and confused. 

I turn to start running the other way, but am met with another trash monster with a Chinese food box as a mouth, which opens in a fold-back manner as it sucks in air, then roars in my face with the flaps of the box narrowing their aperture to direct its path toward my mouth, which was agape with horror. Flecks of leftover noodles project into my hair as my face is covered in cold droplets of brown sauce with the immense force of its breath. After it seems to exhaust itself with the roaring, the monster stands still except for its respirations, drooling rotted brown sauce down to the ground with each exhalation, slightly hunched in a defensive bracing position. Its shoulders are rising and falling from its heavy respirations like the other one was. The noise is like a plastic bag caught on the front of a car. The savory-sweet, mossy smell of old food covers me in its musk. I stand perfectly still with splatters of rotten-brown-sauce monster drool on my face just gawking at the thing, waiting for its next move, locked in the weirdest standoff of my life. I recall thinking that this smell will take awhile to leave after I wash this shit off my face. I just want to get home because I have to work again tomorrow. Let’s get this over with, Trash Monster.