The Melancholic Tale of Thomas Paine

The door stood open, or rather ajar letting in a shaft of light from the warm winter sun outside, casting its beam across the floor. The cool sea air wafted in and then out, gently lifting the paper lying scattered around the room, up and then gently down again. And the crisp smell of the sea, thundering upon a beach a little way away, permeated that little house imposing its existence on all.

Thomas lay, faced down on the mattresss with the sheets knotted in a tight grip around his legs. The night had been a restless one, atested to by the wrinkled bedclothes and a pillow lying solitary on the floor beside the bed. A bed which in fact was nothing more than a mattress sat atop some old wooden crates, rescued from the market in town a few miles away.

Yes - this was how he had wanted it. Alone, away from everyone and everything. A humble dwelling where he could concentrate on his affairs, leaving the day-to-day of the world, of society, far gone. When the landlord had stared at him in surprised disbelief and asked him why he wished to have no contact with the good persons living in town, he had simply replied, in a cold emotionless tone that he had no business with the world.

And business he had not. Indeed, it was to his great misfortune - or so he lamented every day that passed - that he still existed among the living.

A seagull flew in, and with a quick flutter of its wings, alighted atop the small, cluttered tabletop standing next to the matress. The bird looked around, adjusting its eyes to the light and then jumped down onto the bed, intent on examining the occupant. It hopped along the crumpled bedclothes until it reached Thomas’ feet, wrapped in the sheets. The seagull paused, re-evaluating its subject.

There was no movement. Not even the slightest shift in position by the body that lay there, cold now it seemed. Noting this, the bird cautiously made its way towards the hand, where it found at last, flesh that had escaped the sheets’ grasp.

Hestitant, it pecked at a finger within reach and with that, in a sudden jerk, the hand was quickly pulled away and in a great flutter, the startled bird rose, flapped its wings in an attempt to get airborne as fast as possible, and this accomplished, it hurriedly left through the door.

Thomas Paine stirred. The peck had hurt for sure, but it was of no real consequence to him. And as the sound of the sea rose softly in a gentle crescendo, he lulled back into his sweet sleep; beautiful sleep that protected him from his thoughts in consciousness.