Mercy's Pockets
by Matt Blair
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A choking blanket of light sliced through the gray-blue haze of the sky. The sun was just peeking over the cityscape, and already its presence was overwhelming. It did little to impede the flow of foot traffic on the streets and sidewalks, however; for most heat-hardened citygoers, it was just another shirt-drenching scorcher in an increasingly drudging series of scorchers.
It was on this particular morning-- 7:13 a.m. of a mid-July day, to be exact-- that Old Man Mercy was found lying motionless at the mouth of an alleyway. In his simple gray button-up shirt and burlap pants, he looked more the part of a sun-dried scarecrow than a crumpled man. Cracking skin clung tight to his skull, sagging slightly beneath his cheeks like a drugstore Halloween mask. A thinning layer of silver hair stretched back from his pruned countenance, and liverous blotches adorned his arms like fading tattoos. Every now and again a crusty rasp crawled from Mercy’s throat like a shovel blade dragged across dry concrete.
No one knew how long he had been there, or for that matter exactly what was ailing him. He was quite old after all, was Old Man Mercy, and an old man lying in an alleyway is not such an unusual sight as one might think. The alley itself was quite typical, unimpressive save for the variety of aromas filling the air. A lingering stench of rotten fish permeated the area, the smell of dingy metal garbage cans roasting their unknown contents beneath an unforgiving sun. It was certainly a far from pleasant experience, and perhaps this was why everyone was so reluctant to provide some assistance to a humbled old man. Perhaps the passersby assumed Mercy’s condition was beyond whatever scant aid they could provide him, that he had already had plenty of years with which to enjoy sunny days, and certainly didn’t need a few more. Perhaps they merely didn't notice him, lying among the trash and rotting fish. Perhaps.
When attention was finally paid to the plight of Old Man Mercy, it was by a rat. A rather large rat, with particularly sharp and cunning incisors, and gray fur that stood out in mangy tufts along its body and behind its ears. Still, merely a rat. It watched the motionless man from across the alleyway for an hour, then two. Finally, curiosity must have overtaken the rodent, as inch by inch it began to creep toward Mercy's silent form.
A yard away from the man now, and the rat hesitated, nose twitching, a barely audible chittering between its teeth. Summoning every inch of its rodent courage, it completed the distance in a rapid scurry of paws and proudly circled its find, the chittering growing excitedly in its throat. Hunching beside Mercy, it sniffed cautiously at the old man's upturned face and slinked its mangy body up onto his chest. Continuing its expedition, the scavenger crept into the crook of Mercy’s arm draped limply across his torso, and nuzzled the lifeless limb to the pavement with a soft thump.
Still, the only signs of life in Mercy were the tiny, cracked whistles of breath passing through his lips, the only motion the nearly unnoticeable rising and falling of his chest.
Bored with its activities, the rat turned its attention toward the Mercy’s possessions. Picking through his pants pockets, it dragged out various assorted knick-knacks and mementos of an old man's life: a threadbare handkerchief, a damaged pocketwatch, shreds of a grocery list, a safety pin, three fading, scratched pennies, several lint balls.
Unimpressed with these souvenirs, the rat impatiently dug deeper into Mercy's pockets, rattling around until something of interest was discovered: a faded wallet, the leather as cracked and aged as Mercy’s skin. Exiting tail-first, the rat dragged the wallet into the glaring sunlight, tucked firmly between its teeth. Once again basking in the scathing heat, the furry thief, booty in mouth, lumbered away unnoticed into the awakening day's busy streets.
* * *
No one else paid Mercy any mind until the next morning, when the rat returned with three of its cohorts. The previous day’s pickpocket danced excitedly around the body, then leaped quickly onto Mercy's chest, providing its companions with a fair degree of amusement. One of them approached the prone figure and began tugging cautiously at his shirt. Another of the chums, apparently more bold, began poking and prodding at the poor fellow's ear. The third and last newcomer, in an audacious attempt to upstage his companions, scaled Mercy's face and swiped a claw across the side of his nose, drawing a thin line of blood in the process.
Of course, the four rats found this gesture to be an absolute scream. Merrily they began clawing, biting, and gnashing away at the exposed bits of Mercy's flesh, eventually rending bits of his clothing to shreds, also. Thirty full minutes of this disfigurement ensued before the rats grew bored with the game. Making their final last impressions on his tattered skin, the pack stalked away in search of other sport, hissing their malicious laughter, leaving a bleeding, mangled Old Man Mercy in their wake.
* * *
No one noticed Mercy lying wounded on the third day, as a cooling rain mercifully fell upon his weathered skin. Raindrops pattered into his mouth, down his throat, forcing some slim spark of life into his withered body for yet another day.
Whether the old man dreamt during the course of these days is a matter of minor debate, but ultimately little concern. Perhaps he dreamed of wakefulness, or youth, the jubilant, seemingly endless dance of youth.
Or perhaps he dreamed of rats.
* * *
On the fourth day of Old Man Mercy’s troubled sleep, he was noticed by yet another rat. This one appeared to carry itself in a slightly more well-to-do manner than Mercy’s previous visitors-- its fur, unlike the filthy manginess of the other rats, was well-kept and shone healthily. Studying Mercy's motionless state, the creature reached between the tufts of its groomed fur, withdrawing a small black object. It glanced first at the still body, then up at the harsh sun, then again at the body, observing Mercy from various angles with the precision of a craftsman. The rat then rose to its hind legs, standing surprisingly steady for a four-legged creature. It raised the tiny device to its eye and pressed a small button. The black box clicked and whirred in the photographer’s paws, firing off a series of bright flashes.
The rest of the world faded away, leaving only the artist and its subject. A true master of the craft, the rat gave careful thought to the detail and quality of each shot, stopping only occasionally to swap out rolls of film, before finally succumbing to the falling darkness of the night sky. Its shining black eyes glittering with satisfaction, the photographer slinked away. It was just a rat again, crawling on four legs.
* * *
Over the next couple of days, Mercy had more and more visitors. Rats would stop at the entrance of the alleyway in groups of two and three and more, pointing in the direction of the body. Some would gibber away excitedly to their companions and loved ones. Others would merely shake their heads in sadness before slinking away down other anonymous, decidedly less hassling streets.
The heat had returned with added vigor. Mercy’s skin had taken on a decidedly sickly complexion, blotched with deep scarlet. Several egg-colored blisters stood out on his face and his arms, some of which had recently burst and begun seeping a viscous opaque fluid.
A new, peculiar odor had joined the mix of alleyway smells, one which hovered disturbingly close to Old Man Mercy’s still form.
None of the rats attempted to aid him in his time of need. Perhaps they did not want to get involved, to be troubled. And who could blame them? Mercy was just another anonymous face, another random cog in a frighteningly large, faceless machine. He would neither greatly enhance nor hinder the overall product with his presence.
Eventually the rats stopped showing up at all.
* * *
Ten days after misfortune befell him, Old Man Mercy died in the alley. No one noticed. No one minded. He was just another cog, after all.
The victim is any old victim, the alley is any old alley, the city is any old city.
And the scurrying rats always find ways to keep preoccupied.
