Grandma told us once that great-great grand uncle John lived in the part of the country that gets the coldest[1] and he built a cabin out there,[2] the cabin where he’d count down his last days when the rabies symptoms started showing[3] and he needed a place to hole up[4] for quarantine[5] and he wrote in his journals about how his head wouldn’t stop hurting and the fever had him sweating through his shirts and he couldn’t even wash it away because the very idea of bathing scared him to his bones[6] and how all there was left to do was wait and wait and wait[7] and sit there in the snow[8] and the quiet[9] until it was his time to go.[10]
[1] But it happened in the summer, winter just makes for a better picture
[2] By himself? Unlikely
[3] Christ I wish I knew how he got it, bet it was boring like from a squirrel but what if it was dramatic, like a fight with a wolverine
[4] They locked him in there
[5] Until he died
[6] This is just a list of symptoms I found online, all I can do is guess at what he felt because that isn’t a thing my family talks about, feelings
[7] Isn’t that true for all of us, though, aren’t we all just writing in our journals and waiting
[8] It was summer
[9] Doubt it
[10] All I’m saying is that he wasn’t special, we all get our turn
