Choose a scene in the book where Rieux must make a difficult decision or witness a death, and then

subsequently re-write the scene from what they imagine to be Rieux's own first-person perspective (as
opposed to the impartial narrator perspective).

This is our last hope. If this serum doesnt work, it will be the end of Oran. Before the plague, I
was welcomed as a savior; someone who could help the sick become healthy again. The plague has
transformed my noble profession into a harbinger of fear and anger. I no longer cure disease, and
instead, merely condemn people to die alone. With my cue, mothers are separated from their children,
husbands from their wives, and lovers from their partners. When I knock on a mans door, is his fate any
better than that of a man infected with plague? You havent a heart!, a woman yelled at me as she
was stripped of her husband. Am I doing the right thing for my patients? If Dr. Castels anti-plague serum
is effective, it will give this city its best chance for survival. It will also help relieve this massive burden
that has been placed before me.
Hope is a rare gem during these troubled times, possessed only by vultures, and the clinically
insane. My intentions to ease the suffering of those infected by the bacillus were as futile as the pleas of
a wife begging for her infected husband to die in their home. This harsh reality became clear to me after
watching the magistrates son be tortured and killed by the plague.
I reviewed the clinical presentation of the disease in my old medical books. Fever, stupor,
extreme prostration, buboes, intense thirst, delirium, dark blotches on the body, internal dilation, a
fluttering, dicrotic, intermittent pulse, and death. The unfortunate circumstances forced me to become
an expert at identifying this disease. When I was initially called to see the boy, he was in the initial
phases of the disease. His parents were standing at his bedside, and all eyes were on me. Mme Othons
eyes were swollen due to sadness and exhaustion. I regret very much indeed, but Im afraid youll have
to get your things ready, I instructed the family. My mind raced to find words of comfort for them. Is
there anything else I can do for you? M. Othon replied, No. But, save my son. In hindsight, I regret
asking such a foolish question.
We took the boy to the crowded auxiliary hospital that I oversaw. Within the first day, his
prognosis progressed from grim, to hopeless. His body was covered with painful buboes. There was no
better candidate to test Dr. Castels serum on than this innocent little boy. The smidgen of hope for
survival that the serum would provide, if it worked, was better than certain death if nothing was done. It
was a simple risk versus benefit analysis. The morning after the vaccine was administered, we, wise,
scientists observed our subject for any signs of improvement. His frail little body flailed around, like a
fish out of water, as he convulsed on the bed. I gripped the rail of his bed as he suffered in agonizing
pain. Not once, did I turn my head, because it was only fair that I observe every second of my
experiment. The boy stiffened, then gradually relaxed, and then he became tachypneic. He then began
convulsing again and let out a horrifying cry, as if he was being slowly eaten alive by a group of
cannibals. This waxing and waning pattern of unnecessary suffering repeated itself three times over
forty-eight hours, every time becoming more gruesome to watch. After all, this was our brilliant
experiment; the product of years of studying and clinical experience. His exhausted muscles relaxed one
final time as he gasped for air. For the first time throughout this gruesome process, the boy opened his
eyes, and his piercing glare destroyed all hope within our hearts. With tears emanating from his swollen,
erythematous eyes, he looked directly at me. I could not bear to watch any longer, and I closed my eyes
with shame, and disgust. I grabbed onto the rail even harder, like a coward. It didnt matter if my fingers
became ischemic, or my carpal bones broke. What good are the hands of a doctor who cannot ease the
suffering of a dying child?
I had seen many dead children during this time, but never had I witness every minute of
suffering as I did watching the magistrates son. Save my son. The words repeated over and over
within my mind. Many would say that I am too hard on myself; that I did everything I could to help this
boy. I could document that the vaccine allowed the boy to mount a stronger immune response to the
bacillus; anything that would ease the pain of the horrible reality that Panelaux so eloquently put into
words, So if he is to die, he will have suffered for longer. These words will haunt me for the rest of my
life. I betrayed this boy, his family, and the oath I took to first do no harm. My decisions allowed the
plague to torture him for longer, prolonging his death in the most agonizing way. Within my mind, I
asked for forgiveness to a God I never believed in; forgiveness for naively acting as an accomplice to this
bacillus that I so vehemently claimed to be fighting against.