The starving old man

In the mornings, the birds would sing. He enjoyed listening to them. Their sweet singing would always greet his ears before the sound of traffic. It was their song that sometimes made the emptiness in his stomach bearable before his eyes opened to gaze at a cruel, dark reality every day. Sometimes, his insides hurt so badly, he wished somebody would knock him unconscious just to take the pain away.

He was not hungry. Only thirsty. His body felt weak, lethargic and heavy. His muscles ached. It almost felt like he was separate from his body; it was a vessel that could easily drift away from him if he were at sea.

He had lost count of how many days had gone by since his last meal. Yes, he had suffered immensely without food and shelter. Although it was not very long ago, it seemed like a distant memory.

He used to rummage in the garbage for food. Often, whatever he found made him sick, forcing him to vomit. After a while, he no longer felt hunger.

His body was extremely weak, his breathing shallow.

When he opened his eyes, he found himself wondering again what he could possibly ever have done to deserve this fate. It was not that he was saddened or grief stricken anymore. He had accepted it, and, believe it or not, tremendous peace of mind, spirit and soul comes with acceptance. He just wondered why.

Wearily, he looked around, his old eyes seeing very little. He groaned. He had a high fever. It was cold. He shivered.

Within himself, he panicked. What was different about today? He was cold, shivering, and tired. Exhausted. So exhausted. His abdomen started aching suddenly, and he placed hand over the swollen mound, moaning in discomfort.

"Please God," he said out loud. "Please...."

The pain intensified, causing him to wince and cry out. He coughed and closed his eyes and went back to sleep for a moment. When he turned onto his side, the day had turned into night. He noticed and wondered how it become dark so quickly and so soon. Just a minute ago, it had been early morning. The thought slipped away into another troubled sleep.

But it was not night time, he must have been mistaken. Because now, he saw bright sunlight. He heard familiar voices, female voices, in the distance. He smelled the food, and it awakened his senses.

He saw his mother standing over him with her hair tied up into a bun, wearing a fat dress with little bright red dots all over it. She had her pudgy hands on her large hips, and was bending over, peering at him where he lay, slumped over, on the ground.
" You get up and off the floor now, boy," she scolded, smiling at him. "What is the matter with you? Get up".
"I can't," he said.
His mother was holding up a pot of roasted chicken, garnished with mashed potatoes and cilantro.
"I've got your favorite chocolate cake in the oven for dessert after supper," his mother said, her voice beginning to fade a little.

The smell of the roasted chicken filled his nostrils. He smelled the chocolate cake she;d prepared for him....

He smiled.

He was still smiling when a jogger found him, deceased, the early hours of the next day and notified the police.