Andre’s Sickness

Andre Petain was whistling. He always whistled on the way home. He carried with him a large parcel of fish and the smell from the sea. Eight days. Eight days he had been away on the docks west of Marseille. But now he was going home to his wife and child.

Andre kicked up some dust near the end of his lane. It was too dry. The French weather seemed to mock the farmers every chance it got. Folks were starving all around here. But not Andre’s family. He made sure of it. He sent home packages of dried fish and bread whenever he had the chance. It’s not that Andre was rich, he just had a kind employer who didn’t mind such frivolousness. And so his darlings Marie and Sarah were feed.

Farther down the lane he noticed the absence of something. Where was the mongrel? Sarah had found an orphaned dog not long ago and it had stuck around ever since. Andre believed it to be possessed. It would sense his arrival and meet him at the mouth of the street every time. A shaggy little thing, wagging so hard it’s hindquarters were a blur. Andre despised it and would have disowned it long ago if not for his daughter’s joy. But the dog wasn’t there now.

He could see his home a few hundred yards away. A modest place built of wood and stone. There was no light in the window. Marie always sat there in her wooden rocker waiting for his return. Something wasn’t right. His pace quickened.

A smell reached his nostrils. It was a thick, sweet smell. He had smelt it before. He recalled when he was a child and found a dead rat in the alley outside his home. He had returned everyday to watch as the maggots ate away it’s flesh . His house smelt like that rat.

On the doorstep he found the mongrel. It lay splayed out, intestines leaking from a deep gash in its belly. A blood pooled around it’s body. Surely a dog fight? But why did it sit here? Andre reached down and touched the dog’s face. Cold and rigid. It had happened some time ago. Marie would not have left it for Sarah to find.

The smell only grew stronger as he opened the door. His stomach clenched and he felt sickened. But nothing seemed out of place except the absence of Marie from the window. He placed the fish on the table and searched.

“Marie? Sarah?” he called to a silent house.

The stench grew thicker as he approached the bedroom. It is there that he found his family. Marie and Sarah lay on the bed, limbs intertwined beneath the sheets. They were sleeping. But the sheets looked too stiff, too dark. He pulled them back slowly and retched.

There was no telling where Marie stopped and Sarah began. They had been ravaged, cut wide open dozens of times. Sarah’s arm was hewn clean off and lay on the floor. Marie’s chest had been hacked so deep he could see splinters of bone on the bed. Only their faces remained untouched. Caught eternally in the peace of sleep as if to mock him and his grief.

Andre fell to his knees beside the bed and began sobbing uncontrollably. ‘Mes amours…’ he kept saying. My loves. Nothing and everything swept through his mind. Why and when. He been gone eight days. How long had they been left like this? Why had it happened? And who?

Vomit stung his throat and he heaved some more. The floor stank from his spit up but Andre didn’t smell it. He didn’t sense anything. Andre wiped his mouth and snot on his sleeve. There was no reason in him. No sense of reality. They disappeared the moment he saw the bodies. Still crying he grabbed Sarah’s arm, climbed upon the bed and wrapped the sheets around himself and the dead. And there he lay, the arm across his chest and his family spread around and under him. Blood soaked his breeches. He wept until he fell asleep.

In the night he awoke and lit a match without realizing his own actions. He set the bed ablaze and watched as the fire ate at the flesh. He imagined it was caressing his loves. Enveloping them. Their faces peeled away slowly, erasing the strained look of peace upon them. Then he lay on the floor as the fire raged around him. He welcomed the flames and didn’t feel as they began to embrace him too.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

He didn’t die in the fire. A passer-by noticed the smoke and pulled him free. But whatever Andre Petain was before he was not now. His rough, handsome face had been desecrated by flames and scarred. His mind blocked out the horrors of that night and he became a vagrant. Ale and harlots distracted him. He swept from night to night in a haze, only to wake the next morning on some stoop , being harassed by a shop keeper.

His scars never entirely healed. An infection raged his face and it was covered in open sores and pus. And the pain never stopped. It pulsated through his head, a dull whine in his brain. His thoughts were muddled. There was no process left, no distinction between right and wrong, illogical and irrational.

The years passed. Andre haunted the streets of Marseille like a unwanted grief. Those that gave him pity, gave him money, which only fuelled his lifestyle. And so Andre lived on, a shadow of a man and a fragment of a conscious.

Andre awoke one morning in a haze of disorientation. Who lay beside him? He felt the warmth of another’s flesh. Was it his darlings?

“Marie?” he whispered.

The woman turned over. Her face was not the flawless complexion of Marie. It was ruddy and blotchy from a hard life and drinking. Her eyes had already begin to sag though she must not have been that old. Her teeth were rotten and her breath stank like decay. Andre cringed and rolled out of bed.

“Who’s Marie eh? “ the woman cackled. She sat up tousling her filthy hair.

“Mes excuses. Sorry Beth, only a dream.” he began to dress, gathering his filthy clothing.

“Ah well, if you dreamt I was your wife then last night couldn’t have been that bad. A real treat in fact. Worthy of compensation?” Beth’s eyes narrowed severely.

“Woman, how many times do I have to tell you. I have no money. You want paying costumers go elsewhere. All I wanted was a bed and a harlot and I got my fill.” Andre walked out of the room ignoring Beth’s screeching behind him.

Why do I take up with such trash, he thought as he walked out of the familiar run down inn and into the sunset. It made his eyes water and drilled into his head. He had no recollection of last night or the nights before. He walked briskly in case he had rented the room himself. Some mornings when he wakes up he finds a hefty bill awaiting him with no recollection of how he spent the money. Not that he had any money to spend. It’s all lies and theft in the slums of Marseille. Spending four years as a vagrant had taught him that. What you can’t deceive out of people, you can steal from them.

Andre’s head pulsed and his scars itched. Even if he had money for a doctor one was hard to come by in Marseille. Andre dealt with the pain by drinking. Though sometimes in his drunken delusions he’d feel the flames licking his face again and would scratch until the wounds bled. Those mornings he’d wake up deranged, caked in blood he was convinced wasn’t his. He’d see the slain bodies of his wife and daughter everywhere, hanging in the shop windows or laying on the street. He weep and cry out for them and merchants would curse him for frightening their customers.

Andre needed a drink. The pounding in his head would dull and become bearable if only he had the money. There were several ways to get it. Pick pocketing, though he lacked the co-ordination. People would stare at him because of the scars and make it impossible to be cunning. He could add the ale to his tab at the tavern but the barkeep had a grudge against Andre. Probably from his many years of failing to pay and the constant displays of intoxication Andre performed. Typically Andre settled on begging.

The street was full of travellers and merchants. It was mid day and the people of Marseille were continuing life as they always had. Working, selling and purchasing. Bypassing Andre as if he was a blemish. A lady of stature walked by surrounded by servants. No doubt she was headed to the fancy shops down town.. She wore a satin dress with a low round neckline and small ruff. She wreaked of perfume and wealth. All Andre sensed was opportunity.

“M’excuser my Lady. Could you spare some change? A penny or two would suffice.” Andre made sure to look her in the eye, forcing her attention on his ruined face.

“Ay monster!’ she exclaimed, “ I will not. Kindly remove yourself from my path.”

Her servants danced nervously about unsure of how to act. Andre pressed closer.

“ Just a penny, that’s all I ask. Certainly you can afford that much? Or is your appearance for show? Are you not a lady of caliber?” Andre grinned causing his face the stretch the scars and pus leaked from the open sores.

“ Here!” she cried throwing money on the ground. “Pick it up dog, you never will never be graced with a lady of my caliber again. May you take notice.”

The lady and her servants rushed away heading north to the more expensive shops. Andre watched her petticoats waddle behind her with glee. He reached down and picked up the money. It was more then enough.


Andre purchased ale from the cheapest merchant and set about deciding where to drink it. He walked past the crooked shops of the slums, past the homes destroyed by fires, past other homeless men begging for change or a fight, until he came upon his favourite haunts, a small graveyard. It was unkempt and forgotten. No one of importance lay here. The vines and weeds grew around the graves, most unmarked. For some reason it always seemed colder here, like he could feel the frozen gasps of the dead. It was here he could be with Marie and Sarah. He felt their presence in the air. Sometimes in the night a ghostly hand would caress his cheek and whispers would come to him. Other nights he’d stay awake convinced he’d catch a glimpse of their ghostly forms, walking among the dead, to collect him and take him with them. He’d fall asleep in the early hours of the morning exhausted from sorrow.

It was also here that the local children would play their game. Many of the graves were marked with little bells. These were put in place in case the dead weren’t really dead. A string would run into the coffins so the recently deceased could ring them if they woke up. The children would run around ringing these bells and shouting ‘Le Fleau! Le Fleau!’. The Plague. Some of the older children would try to scare the rest with tales about sickly bodies rising from the grave. In the end all of them would get frightened and return home.

Andre would watch this game in amusement, laughing at the terrified faces. But today there was no game. It was too bright a day to take refuge in a graveyard. Andre was alone with his drink, his ........

thoughts and his pain.

It became late. The sun was setting on Andre and he was too drunk to find shelter. The night grew cold in Marseille but he would sit outside and freeze. He had no desire to care for himself. Some nights he awake stiff with cold and his breeches soiled from nightmares. He’d only turn over and sleep some more.

Andre thought about digging a grave for himself. Not to die in but to sleep in. Though if he managed to pass away in the night it was no concern of his nor anyone’s. If it’s good enough for them, he thought, looking out at the mounds. He chuckled to himself.

As the night pressed around him Andre’s loneliness and inebriation grew. Where are the children? Why didn’t they come out today? Andre loved watching the children’s game. Even the sound of those little bells was comforting to him. In a way he thought it justified him feeling Marie and Sarah’s presence. The dead can come back. Andre heaved himself up and walked to one of the bells.

Ting ting ting. He rang it and giggled to himself.

“Marie? Sarah? Where are you mes amours?” He called into the dense night but no one answered. “Marie! Come here. Damn you for leaving me. What am I to do? What am I to do?” he cursed into the night, his voice breaking and knees buckling.

His face hit the grass causing stars to dance about his head. The pain was so bad. The thoughts and memories and visions were so bad. He had nothing. No family, no home, no money, no sanity. He should have died with them, beside them. But he continued on a shell of a man. Only an empty vessel to be filled with guilt, remorse and frenzied visions. His desolation consumed him, became him, and there was room for little else.

“Come back to me.” He whispered to the grass.

Ting ting ting. A bell was ringing. Andre looked up but it wasn’t his bell. It was a bell across the yard. Could it be, he thought, they have come back. No one could tell Andre that it was his fevered mind. No one could tell him he was sick, that he mustn’t do it. Only Andre could stop himself and he had no
Intention, no ability to doing so. He was filled with the irrational thought of seeing his loved ones, and no logic was left.

He sprinted toward the grave and fell to his hands and knees. He didn’t see that the bell wasn’t moving, all he could here was the ringing in his head. He clawed with his hands, faster and faster. His fingernails tore and bleed, the earth caked his hands. And still he dug. He might’ve dug for an hour or two but to Andre it seemed like eternity. I’m digging them out of Hell, he thought. My Marie and Sarah want out of Hell.

His hands hit a hard surface then fell right through it. Andre unsteady, toppled into the grave, the top of the coffin caving in. He lay on top of the body catching his breath and trying to stop the spinning. Then he turned around. It was not Marie or Sarah. It was the body of plague victim, discarded here weeks ago. Andre could still see the boils on it’s face and the pain in it’s eyes. The maggots had already worked their way in and had begun eating away the flesh of the face. Bone was visible around the nose. The flesh under Andre felt doughy, almost liquidized and it left brown stains on his breeches.

Andre screamed and screamed. He climbed out of the coffin and on to solid ground. Vomit sprayed from his mouth soaking the grass. He coughed up blood and mucus and spittle leaked down his face. Straining to breathe he tried to collect himself and then… rage. Rage like he never felt swelled inside him. An uncontrollable anger that lacked any sense of morals or sanity.

Andre threw himself on the body and began to beat it. He struck it’s decaying face over and over again. Maggots and flesh flew all around him. His hand hurt from hitting the bone and was soaked in pus from the boils but he didn’t stop. He couldn’t. He dragged the body from the grave and kicked it. Rats squealed from inside the body. Again and again he brought his heel down on it’s face until there was nothing left but shattered bone and slush. He grabbed an arm and tore it for the socket. Rats slithered out of the hole injured and dying. He crushed them underfoot too watching their eyes pop out of their sockets followed by gray matter that could only be brain. He could no longer use his arms or legs to cause the body harm. But he wasn’t finished. The rage remained and demanded to be satisfied. It was then that he began to bite.

He gnawed at the arm in his head tearing away the dead flesh. He licked the boils and vomited from the bitter taste. But still he didn’t stop. He chewed the arm tasting the sickness and death. When he reached the bone he bit harder and harder breaking his teeth and cutting his gums. His own blood filled his mouth and he threw the arm in disgust.

His infuriation clung to him. It refused to subside. He needed the harlot. Picking up the rest of his ale he swigged at it as he walked. An insane impulse filled him. He needed the harlot.

The alleys blurred together as he strode on. He knew where to look. Where that ugly bitch would be. His mind danced with delusions. Hardly remembering how he got there he found Beth walking her street, tight bodice and low neckline. He grabbed at her waist forced his tongue down her throat.

“Ugh, Andre! What have you been doing? You’re soaked and smell like shit.” Beth pulled away. Revulsion dominated her homely features.

“Now. I have money.” Andre slurred in a voice that was possessed.

Beth didn’t need telling twice. She took his hand and steered him to the run down inn. Andre paid for a room and the innkeeper took his money from him quickly, covering her nose with one hand.

“You’ll have to pay for bedding too.” she said looking at the state of him.

He returned her glare and smiled showing a bloody mouth and broken teeth. The innkeeper retreated to her room.

Beth followed Andre to the room regretting her decision. The man was deranged. The only thing that kept her there was the promise of being paid. She closed the door behind her and unclothed. Her breasts swelled with her quick breathing, her stomach was flabby from so much drinking. Andre didn’t even look at her. She climbed on the bed and waited.

Andre searched the room and found nothing satisfactory. There was only a bible and a chamber pot. He clutched at the bible. Starring he ran his hands over the cover. God, what God?

“Not religious now are you? Come have some fun.” Beth tried to not sound uncertain.

Andre glanced up from the bible at Beth. He strode to the bed and kissed her deeply.

“I’m sorry I never paid you.”

His arm swung back and then down. The bible struck Beth’s temple. He hit her harder and quicker, hoping she wouldn’t cry out. Her nose broke and face bruised. Over and over he hit her. She gasped choking on blood but couldn’t catch her breath to yell. Her hands clutched at something hidden under the mattress. Andre grabbed at her wrists and held them down in one hand. The bible dropped the floor and he reached under the bed. The little bitch had hidden a knife.

She wept as he smiled at her. He bent down and brushed her hair out of her face. It was caked in blood and sweat. Then he carefully, almost gently opened her mouth. Beth tried to fight but it was futile. He reached in and pulled out her tongue. Slowly he began to cut it off. The blood gushed over his hand making it harder to hold the tongue so he quickened his pace. Beth made indistinguishable sounds of pain. Her eyes rolled back and she passed out.

After the tongue was removed Andre tossed it out the window. Who wants a whore’s tongue anyways? Now these, he thought, starring at her breasts. They were too big to carry with him so he settled on the nipples. Each one sliced off with ease and he pocketed them. He noticed her shallow breathing. Time to finish his mind said but he didn’t hurry. He looked over her body holding the knife to certain places. Her heart, her legs, her neck. He smiled and slit her throat.

There’s no way a body could hold so much, he thought, as her life force gushed out. She’s not human. He wiped his hands on his breeches adding more body fluids to them. His own little painting, he chuckled. Making sure Beth’s nipples were still tucked away he left the room making sure to kick the bloody bible on the way out.

“Lord, strike me down!” he cried into the hallway.

But there was no answer. The innkeeper peeked out but slammed the door shut when he looked her way. He paid no attention. He had other business tonight.

Outside the fresh air dulled his senses. His mind was spinning. Hallucinations came to him steadily. The dog at the corner? Was it the mongrel? He ran towards it and it fled smelling the death upon him. Cursing, he threw the knife through a shop window.

Was it Sarah he heard screaming in the darkness? Did Marie just run into the alley, bloody and mutilated? His brain sent messages to his eyes with no connections to reality. All he felt was the instinct to follow and avenge.

Realizing he needed the weapon he followed after it. The shop was owned by a merchant who repaired shoes and he was still awake sewing. He had seen the shrunken man cursing nothing but a stray dog. He had watched the tantrum and the throwing of the knife through his window. Then he starred in awe and horror as this man came back to claim his weapon.

Andre strode in and found the knife on the floor.

“Pouvoir je vous aide?” May I help you.

Andre answered with his knife. He stabbed the man’s knee pinning him to the wooden chair in which he sat. The merchant cried out in surprise and anguish and starred unbelievingly at the wound.

“No.” said Andre.

He grabbed the knife and twisted. Waves of nausea hit the merchant and he keeled over. He spewed the contents of his belly on the floor. The smell sickened Andre further. Dizziness threatened to make him collapse.

“Was it you?” Andre demanded, “Did you do it? Speak!”

Andre grabbed the needle from a shoe on the table. He bit the thread loose and forced the merchant’s head forward.

“Hold still.”

The merchant jerked and twisted as Andre started sew up his left eye. Every time the merchant moved or screamed the needle would pierce the eye. Andre would huff, and with the patience of a saint, slowly pull the needle out and begin again. The merchant defecated in his chair. When the left eye was done Andre tied a knot and bit the thread again. And began the right eye. The merchant shifted through consciousness and a trance. Andre finished the eye with little delaying and stood back looking at his work.

Blood leaked from the corners but otherwise the eyes were stitched shut. Andre liked the merchant’s face so much he decided to take it with him. But what to use? He bodily lifted the merchant from the chair, the knife freeing itself from the wood but remaining fixed to the knee. Grabbing the merchant by his ears, Andre forced him on his knees in the doorframe driving the knife deeper. He lined up the merchant’s neck with the door, slowly opening and closing it to be sure. Then he slammed it. A huge cracked resonated through the shop but the swing didn’t do the job. Three more times Andre slammed the door until the bones in the merchant’s neck had been pulverized. Andre pulled the knife from the merchant’s knee and cut through the skin of the neck. Once the head was free he placed it under his arm. The merchant’s body fell with a dull thud, sputtering blood onto the floor.

Andre stepped through the broken window taking his prize. He turned to wave farewell and laughed as he watched the merchant’s cat running to lick the stump of the neck. Animals.

Andre stumbled through the streets exhausted. His face ached with an unknown pain. Never had he felt this awful. His scars festered and bleed. His right side sagged so that his vision blurred. Boils had begun to break out over his skin. They itched and stung in the cold air. But worst of all was the thoughts that swilled through his head. Nothings and murmurs. None of it with reason. Ghouls and demons danced before him, bright colours swirling with a non-existent wind. And in the midst was his Marie.

She stood clothed in her night things. White lace flowing along with gold hair. And she reached out to him through the haze and darkness.

He held the bloody head out to her and yelled, “Was it him?” but her image wisped away.

Andre collapsed in the street. The merchant’s head rolled into a gutter. Grief and pain overcame him. The plague that now raged his beaten, shrunken body was ravishing his organs. He lay there alone and heart broken. Finally his body began to give in.

The noise of the merchant’s torture had woken the town folk and they gathered on the street. Upon seeing the rolling, severed head the women screamed and took refuge in their houses. They watched through the windows. The men gathered in a mob. They struck Andre as he lay in the street. Feet and fists were everywhere but Andre felt no blows. The bones of his face shattered, his nose caved in. The cracking of his ribs could be heard in the houses. But no cry broke from his lips. He felt his skull fracture but no pain came to him. The pain had stopped.

As his heart slowed and his lungs fought from air he looked closed his eyes. And in the blackness he saw them.

“Mes amours?” he called and died.

Not too bad.

Although, it seems like you're trying to be too macabre - it seems almost forced, and leaves a little bit to be desired.

But, I thought it was interesting, and that you show promise.

Keep it up.

Not too bad.

Although, it seems like you're trying to be too macabre - it seems almost forced, and leaves a little bit to be desired.

But, I thought it was interesting, and that you show promise.

Keep it up.

That`s funny cause it was a little forced. I was having a writing contest with a friend and the topic, genre, place and time period were prechosen. I do much better when I have free reign. I knew nothing of France nor the time period it takes place in.

That`s funny cause it was a little forced. I was having a writing contest with a friend and the topic, genre, place and time period were prechosen. I do much better when I have free reign. I knew nothing of France nor the time period it takes place in.

Ah - neat.

Then, I stand by my statement.

Keep it up.

...years passed. Andre haunted the streets of Marseille like a unwanted grief


i really enjoyed this line.