Each morning when Arthur Durgs rose from his bed, his first thought was what he might write about that day. He marvelled at the word processor he now possessed thanks to the generosity of his son Paul.
Now that he was confined to the nursing home and the threat of contracting the virus hung over his head he knew his days to write might well be limited as he’d seen so many of his fellow nursing home companions go down to the virus which once it took hold of you seemed to delight in bringing about your demise.
Like so many of his age, he liked his routines, and upon rising and completing his ablutions, he dressed in his suit with his favourite tie and began by going over the previous days writing. He normally had a good fifteen minutes for revision before the nurses would come to take him to breakfast.
He been working on a tale for his grandson, Cyrus, as the boy was a lively fellow and when he came to visit would give his parents merry hell as he raced around Arthur’s room and so Arthur had engaged him in the writing of a tale the boy was contributing to. So far there were apples, dinosaurs and a frog, which Arthur was trying to spin into some sort of tale. But he saw it as a challenge and was determined to finish it for Cyrus, at least leave him with something from his grandfather.
It was when he returned from breakfast that he opened another page on his computer to record the ever-dwindling numbers around him.
Gracie from room 4 was not there today, neither was Bill from room 15. The breakfast room was getting more and more sparse every day. On the wall outside the breakfast room was a growing list of those who had died.
But Arthur, as sobering as he found it all, sat back at his computer and started typing, the sense of urgency getting greater each day.