seymoure

“The Fever”

Then came the nighmare.

The shivering was stopped only by the arrival of the blasting furnace of fever. Victor knew he could nearly see the waves of fiery heat dance from his face. His head felt ready to explode at any moment.

He was slightly aware that he had no awareness of his body outside of his head.

His reasoning was within him only by force of will.

This was dangerous, he told himself, and he could die if he let it go on like this.

He was on fire, and yet his sweat had ceased a few hours ago. Or was it a few minutes ago that he stopped drenching the bed clothes he had been holding onto for dear life?

This was pneumonia, he realized. He remembered it because he had had it before. Not in this life, but the one before.

Hell of a time and reason to begin to get his memory back.

Antibiotics. He needed the antibiotics.

With all the self he could muster he looked for the bottles. First thing he came across was aspirin. Good, that would break the fever.

He took a handful and chewed them. How many could you take before the medicine killed you? He didn’t remember. Hell, he didn't know if he ever knew. Or if it was a legitimate question.

Then he saw some Tetracycline. How old was that? He wasn’t even sure they still made it. He certainly couldn’t make out the tiny information on the bottle. He took 5 of the pills, since they might be twenty years old they could have lost some of their vavoom. They didn’t taste any worse than the aspirin. But, then, his taste buds had shut down a long way back.

Wait, wait, wait! Here was Ampiciline. This would be newer. So he took all 3 of those. He felt himself getting woozy.

He stumbled and grabbed on overhead beam to steady himself.

His knees decided that steady was not going to do it, so they gave out on him.

His head throbbed like they were holding a heavy metal concert right behind his eyes. The speakers at his temple bounced with the rhythm of some epic anthem.

Strange, the song stuck in his head of “We’re Having a Heat Wave.” Not really heavy metal, but there you go.

Then he soiled himself. Again.

If he could feel shame at this point he would have, but his face melting and running down his chest was all he could really focus on.

Now there little tiny men with can openers trying to pry open his skull. He batted at them with his hands, but they were made of Valo-milk candy and melted away, leaving globs of marshmallow to roll down his forehead.

The attic glowed red and he was aware that someone was playing castanets somewhere close by.

No, not castanets, it was his teeth chattering.

On hands and knees he crawled back to the pile of blankets in the corner and tried to climb under them.

Mostly he did, but some were under him and he did not have the strength to move his body or pull up the blankets.

He stopped struggling.

It was here that he was going to be. If he got under enough blankets to save himself, so be it. Otherwise his tank was out of gas.

Somewhere, in the distance, he heard Mama Cass singing.

“See,” He thought as he slipped into sleep, “There are angels.”