The Seventh Day

The Seventh Day

The sun had set, but it was still 95 degrees in the shade. Ross Burrows scurried along the base of a very large rock. He knew that water occasionally trickled down the sides, not a lot of water but enough for a drink. He was sweating profusely, and he could smell it on his body. There was no water for a bath, not today. His skin looked parched and some kind of rash covered his extremities, itching and burning until he thought he would go insane. He had to compete with large scorpions also hunting for water. He finally located a tiny trickle of the life-saving fluid. He licked the spot dry and felt like he had sweated more fluid than he had drunk.

Ross was alone. He hadn't seen another soul in a week. No woman will ever give me the time of day, he thought, not with this skin. He laughed aloud, knowing it was foolish to hope someone would befriend him since he had no real home, little food to eat, almost no water, nothing to share. Tears filled his eyes. Surely no man deserves this fate, he mumbled. He continued to feel sorry for himself as he began walking toward his dwelling. He didn't know why, but he felt very anxious and dreaded the night. He dreaded the morning even more but couldn't name his fear.

It was beginning to get dark. His shelter was more like a cave than a building, but it kept the burning sun off his back during the day. If he ever thought of the sun as life giving, he no longer did; it was his enemy, his foe. It sapped the life right out of him until he wished he could die, but he didn't die. He just sweltered in its heat until his tongue was swollen and dry, until his splotchy skin was on fire. Even his urine burned him as he took a leak, looking around to be sure he was alone.

There was nothing to do to pass the time but remember, remember the early days of his life before he got in the mess he was in. It was odd, but his memories ended before he came to this place. He didn't know what happened that he lost his job, his friends. He had lost his family years before because of his habit with booze. How he longed for a drink now, a drink of anything. He stripped down to his underwear, keeping an eye out for the ever-crawling bugs and lay down on the pallet he had made on the floor. He could see out the entrance. The night sky brought no comfort because he knew it would soon be morning. Sometime later, despite the sweat and the tears, he fell asleep.

He woke up, and the ground seemed to be shaking. Dust was falling everywhere, stirred up by something. It's coming! As soon as he screamed the words, he wondered what's coming? He couldn't face whatever it was and turned over on his stomach and pressed himself as tightly as he could to the floor beneath the ratty blanket. He covered his ears, but it didn't help. The rumble seemed to never want to end, but it did. When the sound stopped, the sun came out, hot and bright and crept into the nooks and crannies of his room. Oh God!, he screamed. I can't stand another day of this.

Out of the new silence came a booming voice. "You are in hell. This is the seventh day of eternity." He continued to scream in fear.




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