Sickness / by Katherine Cecil

If the dosage is strong the infection will last two hundred and sixty thousand six hundred and forty minutes.

That’s four thousand three hundred and eighty four hours.

One hundred and eighty one days,

Twenty four point eight five seven weeks.

Six months.

-The colours rose red, a euphoric life time. Six months. That’s how long it takes.

-- But Survival is to protect yourself. To envelope yourself from the apples of the outside world. Blood stained fangs that pierce at soft cream flesh, that you want to taste so bad, but fear of the fall. Fear of the failure. No, fear of the weakness. Because weakness brings...

--- And the building begins. The repetition soon becomes habit, habit merges softly with life, life clunks roughly with eternity, until one winter morning you wake gazing at an empty ceiling, with a heart chained together by {cold, hard, white ivory}.

---- And you are drowning. The milky blueness of solitude that floods your lungs and tears at your senses. Your suffocating, but resolute in the knowledge that you are armed and protected and will never be weak.

----- However there are those who challenge it, occasionally outside your fortress you hear the faint scratching of someone fierce trying to rip in. To clean you. To bath in your antiquity and wash away a tainted past. And as a fantasist you begin to fantasise over just one hit, and the propositions that they propose.

------ But you will never act on it, for fear of a rupture in the prison that you have spent a lifetime to build.

 For fear of the vertigo,

For fear of the drop,

For fear of the chains, the labyrinth, the weakness,

For fear of the poison.

Because nothing is immortal. Wounds leave scars and even the best drugs fade into a world of loneliness.

Two hundred and sixty thousand six hundred and forty minutes.

Two hundred and sixty thousand six hundred and forty tears,

Two hundred and sixty thousand six hundred and forty breaths.

Then silence.