The sweltering heat caused tiny beads of sweat to form over the old man's dry lips as he licked it vainly, the salty taste tingling his desiccated tongue. He plodded assiduously towards where he thought the large pot of water was kept, his upper body seemed to laboriously drag his weak legs. More dirty sweat appeared on his creased forehead and his weathered face was flushed. He struggled to dip the steel glass in the tepid water and mumbled a small prayer of gratitude when he was successful.

The water trickled down his knobby chin, vanishing inside his soaked shirt and spreading ephemeral coolness to his hot chest. The rest of the mundane day, he stuck his old head out of the small window and quickly inhaled any breeze that occasionally happened to bless him. He silently listened to the tweeting of the birds and the tittering of the boisterous children, imagining a lazy summer day unwinding in his head to escape the stifling room he was confined in.

Prison was better than this.

The dim room cooled as time slowly passed by and he sensed that the sun had calmly slithered down the horizon. He warily proceeded to shut the windows when suddenly, piercing pain pricked his index finger. He concluded that it would have been the rusted latch and desperately sucked on his skinny finger to prevent the bleeding. Metallic taste overwhelmed him and his stomach convulsed, throwing up the little residues of the lunch that he had forced down. The repugnant odour instantly wafted around and in his disoriented state of searching the window and freeing himself from this misery, he stepped on his own vomit.

His feet felt wet and sticky and never in the despondent months following the catastrophic accident, had he so strongly desired for his lost eyesight to be back.

He helplessly tapped the wooden floor with his filthy feet. Once. Twice. Thrice. For they never came at the first cry for aid.

He listened closely to the distant yells and cursing he was accustomed to as it was always the result of him seeking assistance. Then there was some shuffling, the noise of the door creaking open and instead of sorrowful silence, there was a remark of disgust. Tears welled up in his useless, blind eyes from humiliation as he pictured the appalled face of the maid.

"I-I'm sorry," he said abashedly, his head hanging low.

"Okay," came the pitiful response which was muffled due to the hands that covered the maid's nose and mouth.

Even in his incapacitated condition and old age, he grew oddly fond of her as she was the only connection for him to the outside wonders of the world.

He heard her lightly run downstairs and a harsh voice echoed, "He did what again?"

The old man winced at those stinging words, feeling worthless and unloved.

The maid came back with cleaning supplies and kindly wiped away the thin vomit. "Done."

He didn't have the courage to tell her that his wrinkly feet were dirty too, so he let it be.

"Please continue the story that you left it off," he implored her. She sometimes felt sorry for him and narrated him cheerful stories about the surroundings. "I didn't have a good day."

I didn't have a good day in months.

"I have to go," she said quietly, softly closing the door before he could beg further.

That night, he was hungry so he shamefully tapped again. Once. Twice. Thrice. No one came.

Downstairs, a young man apathetically cackled and ruffled his children's hair while taking big gulps of fresh beer and watching television. The maid emerged from the kitchen at the sound of the taps from the ceiling above and abruptly halted when the young man said, "Starve him tonight and tomorrow, that should teach the old shit to not cover my house in his sickness."

The maid nodded reluctantly, mutely arranging an extravagant dinner for her master and his children.

The next day was dismally hotter with the ferocious sun shining powerfully and suffocating the tiny room. The old man was feebly sprawled down, insects hovering over his vomit stained feet. He blew out air from his mouth and deliberately focused on the faint rise and fall of his body when breathing. This trick to keep his mind away from gnawing pain worked for a few minutes before he fell victim to his basic needs. The old man tightly clutched his growling stomach in maddening hunger and heavily tapped the floor. Once. Twice. Thrice. No one came to his rescue.

He strenuously crawled to the pot which was devoid of any water and at this upsetting discovery, he wildly jumped with all his strength, wailing in agony.

Once, twice, thrice! Once, twice, thrice!

Downstairs, the young man laughed loudly at his desperation and the maid feigned ignorance, distracting the inquisitive children with toys. The taps finally ceased and after a couple of minutes, there came a distinct thud from the yard. The maid apprehensively sprinted outside with the children curiously trailing after her and they shrieked at the limp corpse of the old man. The young man slowly manoeuvred out of the house and blankly stared at the old man- his father.

Upstairs, the small window of the smothering room was wide open and it became deadly cold.