He pauses on the way to his car. Something in the road catches his eye. A worm frozen in a shallow puddle. He moves his shoe over it. Solid. Unmoving.
It's a quiet morning. Not much traffic. He crouches down for a closer look. How did it end up there? Must have tried to cross the road in the night and ended up frozen come morning. Poor bugger.
He steps past it and gets in the car. He drives to work. At lunch he thinks a bit about the worm. I wonder what it was thinking as it was freezing. I wonder if it knew what was happening. I wonder if it is still alive in there and what it is thinking now. What did it think of him? Some giant face staring down at it and doing nothing to help. But it's just a worm, he thinks. It just has a little cluster of nerves for a brain. It probably doesn't even feel, let alone think. It probably has no consciousness. Probably.
Still, when he pulls up outside his home that night, the first thing he does is check on the worm. Still there. Still frozen. He walks past it. Sits in his house for a while. Doesn't make his tea like usual. He sits thinking. That poor worm. Why has the universe done that to a worm of all things? He just wants to snuffle about and eat dirt. Doesn't seem right.
It's dark outside when he opens the door and leaves the house, trailing an extension cord behind him. He sits cross legged on the road and feels the bite of the frosted tarmac through his joggers. He plugs his ex's hairdryer into the extension cord and listens as it begins to whir. He points the hairdryer at the frozen puddle and waggles it a little.
Slowly, the puddle starts to melt. I'll get you free soon buddy, he thinks. He ignores the one neighbor who's peeping out his window at him. What does he know of this worm's suffering? Nothing, that's what. He just wants to help. Bring some good into the world, even if it's just for a worm.
The puddle is mostly melted and he feels giddy. It worked. He reaches out and gently lifts one end of the worm away from it's icy cage. There is a tiny moment of resistance. The other end of the worm sticks fast to the tarmac. It snaps. A mushy mess drips down.
He stares, despondent. Later, sat in his room crying softly, he will wonder if this is what it feels like to be God.
Paddy Dobson
13th November 2021