The Little Pilgrim: Further Experiences.: Stories of the Seen and the Unseen.Oliphant, Mrs. (Margaret)
Religion
The Little Pilgrim: Further Experiences.: Stories of the Seen and the Unseen.
Oliphant, Mrs. (Margaret)
Death -- Fiction
At this a sort of dreadful chuckle ran round the place. 'If that is what
you are afraid of, you will not die,' somebody said, touching me on my
head in a way which gave me intolerable pain. 'Don't touch me,' I cried.
'Why shouldn't I?' said the other, and pushed me again upon the throbbing
brain. So far as my sensations went, there were no coverings at all,
neither skull nor skin upon the intolerable throbbing of my head, which
had been exposed to the curiosity of the crowd, and every touch was
agony; but my cry brought no guardian, nor any defence or soothing. I
dragged myself into a corner after a time, from which some other wretch
had been rolled out in the course of a quarrel; and as I found that
silence was the only policy, I kept silent, with rage consuming my heart.
Presently I discovered by means of the new arrivals which kept coming in,
hurled into the midst of us without thought or question, that this was
the common fate of all who were repulsive to the sight, or who had any
weakness or imperfection which offended the eyes of the population. They
were tossed in among us, not to be healed, or for repose or safety, but
to be out of sight, that they might not disgust or annoy those who were
more fortunate, to whom no injury had happened; and because in their
sickness and imperfection they were of no use in the studies of the
place, and disturbed the good order of the streets. And there they lay
one above another,--a mass of bruised and broken creatures, most of them
suffering from injuries which they had sustained in what would have been
called in other regions the service of the State. They had served like
myself as objects of experiments. They had fallen from heights where they
had been placed in illustration of some theory. They had been tortured or
twisted to give satisfaction to some question. And then, that the
consequences of these proceedings might offend no one's eyes, they were
flung into this receptacle, to be released if chance or strength enabled
them to push their way out when others were brought in, or when their
importunate knocking wearied some watchman, and brought him angry and
threatening to hear what was wanted. The sound of this knocking against
the door, and of the cries that accompanied it, and the rush towards the
opening when any one was brought in, caused a hideous continuous noise
and scuffle which was agony to my brain. Every one pushed before the
other; there was an endless rising and falling as in the changes of a
feverish dream, each man as he got strength to struggle forwards himself,
thrusting back his neighbors, and those who were nearest to the door
beating upon it without cease, like the beating of a drum without cadence
or measure, sometimes a dozen passionate hands together, making a
horrible din and riot. As I lay unable to join in that struggle, and
moved by rage unspeakable towards all who could, I reflected strangely
that I had never heard when outside this horrible continual appeal of the
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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