Chapter 1: Bernard
Each morning, Bernard awoke to the silence that clung to the crumbling walls of his old home. Decrepit, discolored wallpapers, scabbed with layers of gray mold, hung for dear life, revealing years worth of neglected repairs working in tandem with time.
Bernard's world had crumbled bit by bit as his vision failed, winnowing down the once-vibrant hues of the outside into shapeless heaps and blurred shadows.
Behind the thick glasses that permanently sat on his hawk-like nose, he knew that the garden surrounding his house resembled a jungle, and the nearby park had transformed into a lonesome, unwelcoming wilderness.
The smell of damp cloth and staleness served as a constant companion to the old man, yet he could never tell if it emanated from his moldy clothes or his body. It was a secret, intimate thing that singled him out as different from how life was when he was married.
Back then, there were people bustling in and out, leaving behind trails of laughter and vivid conversations. Now, it was simply Bernard and his wheelchair, struggling to maneuver around the decaying home.
As Bernard moved towards the dim kitchen, there was a scraping of wood against the tiled floor as his worn-out slippers collided with loose boards. Had there been any witnesses, they would have chuckled at the obscene cursing muffled behind his closed lips. His clumsy movements were endearing, much like the profanity that laced his speech.
It was a trait that had neither dulled nor waned with the passing years, and Bernard would argue it was one of the very few things that both he and time seemed to maintain an almost respectful truce over.
Despite the mishmash of aromas, the fridge's display of wilting greens and cheese went unnoticed. Bernard's taste buds had joined the ranks of his failing senses, numbing him to anything beyond meals best warmed over a stove.
Left to his own devices in the kitchen, he went for the basics -- the earthy saltiness of canned beef stew, weak tea, and the rare package of stale crackers.
Lunchtime approached, when the somber silence of the house was broken by the shrill squeal of his chair as it was propelled into the stifling heat of the living room.
Once there, Bernard was greeted by the staring eyes of brightly colored figurines scattered across the dusty shelves.
The sun's weak attempt at entering the room caught in their glassy gazes, enhancing their plastic allure. It was a peculiar assembly of souvenirs acquired during Bernard's much rambling youth, like the faded Marilyn Monroe poster from a long-ago Valentine's Day, and the multitude of silver trinkets from eager-to-please relatives.
He knew every item by heart, their tales whispered into memory like those of a fading lover. Too weak to dust or repair any damage, Bernard comforted himself with their presence.
The trinkets and figures took on a life of their own as he played an intricate game of storytelling, and the wheelchair, which seemed to swallow him, became a vessel for his fading vitality.
Suddenly, his heavy eyelids were pried open by a clatter of metal against the wooden floor. Shockingly out of place, the noise brought a rare, excited grin to his face. But his smile faded when a rat passed by his feet.
The creature was no stranger to Bernard; he was well aware his home had become a refuge for it and its brethren. However, the degree of infestation was a bit much for his taste.
Living in the middle of nowhere had its cons.
It had been a Herculean challenge even back in its glory days when Bernard and his late wife Vivian were hale and hearty. Having to go to the grocery store for a forgotten item was a maddening ordeal, and now, it was impossible.
Vivian had passed when they were only 50 years old. The grief brought him down into a misuse of alcohol. And when he was at his lowest he had even paid for prostitutes. His house almost seeming like a brothel before he sobered up and got a grip of himself.
He had done a great many things he regretted. Never treating Vivian right when they were young, cheating on her, taking drugs. He never deserved her.
Even though it was futile, Bernard's thoughts drifted towards the memory of his Vivian, her warm smile and quiet strength, often in moments of complete silence and stillness like this.
Buried deep, her letters filled one of his few remaining chests - a testament to the vows they'd shared. He would have collected her photographs as well, had his sight been more reliable. Instead, he only knew her image by memory: her warm eyes, radiant skin, lovingly curved lips, and chestnut hair.
They were as clear in his mind as photographs in his most cherished albums.
He would trace the spot where she used to rest her head on their pillow and breathed a sigh. But this mere thought only stung him like a whip every time, resurrecting an old wound that never fully healed. And he continued to live each day like a pendulum swinging back and forth from guilt to painful nostalgia.
It was a cruel irony that she had passed so young, but he lingered, decaying each day. But somehow clinging on to life.
Bernard felt profound sadness sweep over him. The cliché of life flashing before one's eyes was ever-present in his existence, like a black-and-white movie perpetually on repeat.
Yet, faint traces of happiness could be found, nestled between grievances and regrets. His foray into paradise found, like the many liaisons with prostitutes detailed in those infamous and hazy letters, exhaled serenity even amid the remorse.
Bernard felt his pants get wet, he had pissed himself "Damn" he thought. But there was nothing he could do, he just sat in his wheelchair. Knowing he'd have to wait for his pants to dry again.
Bernard sighed deeply, lamenting his helplessness. He had no one to assist him with the simplest chores or to provide comfort during his time of need. Exhaustion weighed heavily upon his bony shoulders. The exertion required to complete each task, however trivial, drained him of energy, leaving him mentally and physically fatigued.
Then he recalled the social worker who had dropped by last week, her stern smile as cold as winter, her voice rough and course . "Bernard," she had said, "You need not live like this. Allow us to help you arrange a caregiver."
Although fiercely independent, Bernard felt his stamina waning and conceded that the suggestion might hold merit. He simply could no longer manage alone. The weariness encroached like the mold on his walls, and he knew he must confront the inevitable change that lay ahead.
But, as was his nature, Bernard was hesitant to disrupt the solitude that had come to define his days.
He was no stranger to acceptance, having embraced his myriad of health issues as an inevitable part of his later years. Even still, to allow an outsider passage into his decaying home and crippled heart was something he found daunting.
The silence, intermittently broken only by the scurrying of unseen creatures, bought Bernard time to consider a choice that hovered on his threshold.
Bernard picks up his phone, dialing the number to the social worker.