The exudate, a sludgy yet runny fluid that stunk like a mixture of road kill and rotten eggs poured from his foot. Copious amounts of it too. It was a strange concoction that somehow managed to make itself black, white, red and yellow all at the same time. I peered inside and saw what looked to be some horrific diorama of stalagmites that were frail and paper-thin. They crumbled like the brittle fragments of rotten flesh that they were each time I tried to palpate one. The anatomical/geological atrocities held their own rotten stink sacs. That odor was much sweeter, somewhere between ammonia and scrotum-sweat. I picked up his appendage to try and get a better look at the underside of the wound.

 

That didn't last long though. The poor bastard's calf started leaking cellular waste so profusely that my gloved hands were unable to maintain the slippery grip without squeezing so hard that it would break the necrotic pus-oven that was once his leg. Apparently the local flea community had caught word of this feast, as they traveled out for a picnic in a lovely little group of three. I tried to bat them off without hitting the podiatric war-zone (which I felt may hurt this man) but it didn't really have that much effect. I think that the fleas knew I was trying to scare them. I'm sure they've seen worse. After all, they were partying on rotten flesh.

 

I checked the rest of his skin: reddened, cyanotic, indurated...generally discolored and distraught, but there weren't any bug bites. This finding made me smile. I now had one good thing to report. Then I heard that peculiar noise; the hissing, whining squeal which is exclusive to its owner. I looked back into the great and mighty foot-rot cave. Couldn't see them. I could hear them though. This wound must have been deeper than I thought.

 

Maggots. Nothing else makes a sound like that. But where are the little deviants? Why can't I see them? Foots aren't that big after all. It's not as if they have a whole field to be hiding in. Have the shit-stench stalactites given off a toxin that causes auditory hallucinations when it's inhaled? I hope so, because if that's the case I'll be high all night.

 

Clearly fate decided that this wasn't enough, because the persistent groaning of the dying man was ear-piercing. It wasn't loud, it was just tuned to the frequency of a low tone that has the ability to hover over any other noise in its gravely rattle. He'd stop to take a breath every once in awhile, but he clearly wasn't performing any kind of relaxation breathing. The persistent fever of 100 degrees Fahrenheit brought about by the bacterial brothel that was his bloodstream surely melted his brain by now. I'd place a week's pay on his "higher reasoning" falling somewhere between the ongoing "ungh" I was hearing and "shit".

 

Given the circumstances, I'm hoping that that was the case. This tunnel of necrosis was just sentinel. No one that goes through this should be aware that they are alive.

 

 


 

I hope that you enjoyed this! This is the first nursing journal entry that I've ever posted. If you guys would like for me to write a book please send me an e-mail at info@deathpolka.com and let me know! I disabled comments because I was sick of online robot spammers. I have a contact form too. Just shoot me a quick message!

 

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