Spattergroit [Chaos]
Jan 8, 2011 12:02:53 GMT -5
Post by Meeka on Jan 8, 2011 12:02:53 GMT -5
Kaya Lentach
Thoughts of You
My hand clenched white.
I write it down
Will these words catch flight.
My hand clenched white.
I write it down
Will these words catch flight.
Clammy hands reach out and clutch the tiny, glass vial. My hands shake so profusely, I am afraid that it will shatter in my hands. I'm drenched, freezing and boiling at the same time, the blanket against my skin burns and itches, so I kick it away, watching in satisfaction as it slumps at the foot of the bed. My hands tremble uncontrollably as I pop open the lid of the vial, glancing in dismay at its meager contents.[/size][/blockquote]
Our supply of painkillers are almost all run out. It is the least that can be offered to us, seeing as there is no cure as of yet. Such a tiny vial, yet so powerful. We're completely at the mercy of the little pills inside it. I refuse to let myself be touched by the relentless, frigid hands of strange scientists and doctors - the very kind that were sent in from all across the country. There is no way to escape, we're under lock-down, not that I could even manage to get to the door without breaking down in coughing fits in any case.
Just thinking about it seemingly brings on another one of those fits and I double over, my throat feeling sore and scratchy as my coughs fill the otherwise silent room. I blink back tears and pull back my hand to examine the crimson, sticky substance that covers it. It does not happen often, more so with Trig. When it does, it disgusts me. I wrinkle my nose in distaste, but I am too weak and tired to do anything but dispose of the blood on the fabric of my clingy, grey shirt.
Slowly, I gaze at my still-sleeping girlfriend - fiancée, I correct myself, briefly. It is still weird to think of her in that way and the very word, wife, feels heavy and forbidden on my tongue. I've given her and Trig more painkillers than myself, and despite her protests that she'll go back to who she was before, that she will relapse, I've forced her to. She does not know, or maybe she suspects it.
I've added her painkillers to her tea, after she protested about it, I have forced her to drink it. I know she won't be happy, but it hurts to see her in pain and I feel that I could deal with myself being in pain much better than her or Trig. I've hidden the fact that we barely have any of them left anymore, that our supply is becoming sparce and that I don't think that we will be getting anymore, given the fact that about half the district has spattergroit, this awful disease.
Finally, I force myself to stand up, my legs almost giving away. I cast one more look at Flight, to see if she is still asleep and shove the almost empty vial back into a moth-eaten sock, before stuffing it deep into the drawer next to the bed. I half drag, half stumble over to the adjacent bathroom, trying to control the excessive trembling long enough to twist the metal tap and splash some cool water onto my face.
The person staring back at me in the mirror surprises me. I gasp, taking in the sullen cheeks, the sleep-deprived eyes with dark circles underneath, the beads of sweat on my forehead, strands of red hair clinging to the skin there. My face is a mixture of filth and blood, where I have spread the blood I've coughed up, too tired and sick to care. My shirt is covered in crimson stains, apparently distributed with a wherewithal ease.
My eyes are bloodshot from a lack of sleep, blood trails down my arms, where the spattergroit caused my lymph nodes to burst once more. I spot the bloody, cervical lymph nodes that have ruptured at my neck, now even oozing with yellow pus. I wince as I attempt to wash some of the sickly fluid away, eyes tearing as the itchy, sore skin breaks some more.
I think of Trig who got ill far quicker than Flight or myself did. How he was scared for the first time in years. The fever had risen dramatically. I wash some of the dirt off of my face, but I still look like a ghost, some demon that just isn't me. Finally, I tear my eyes from my broken body, for it seems that it has already given up the fight and stumble back to our shared bed.
She's lying awake now, yellow eyes staring at the ceiling. "Tammy," I whisper, crawling over to her, my frozen hands touching her arms, mostly in fear. I'm afraid. I don't want this disease to do me in. "We're going to die," I add, just as another violent cough forces tears to spring up in my eyes, blood coating my hands once again. It is getting more frequent.