The sickness came on slow, like a fog. Like the fog he had walked into so many weeks ago; he could see that same fog, now. Up above the trees, up above the wilderness, and the road that led from South to North. Or North to South. There was no one on that road, not at this hour. This was a kind-of freedom, one that Jesse didn’t indulge in too often given his adversity to heights. But he was, for the time being, free from the pain of his own body.
The fog rolled in from the East. It was one of the last humid days; one of the last days that such a fog could exist. Soon, Winter would roll in thick and fast. The snow wouldn’t be intermittent, it would be constant. It would build walls around houses and hide the roads from sight. The whole world would be covered in white, and to some that might be beautiful. But to Jesse it would be dull. A world bereft of colour was not a world at all. It was a photograph, taken in black and white.
He wanted to drift away with that fog. He wanted to be carried away on the currents of the air. Where could it take him? Would he drift, lost forever, or would that wind take him all the way around the world, to bring him right back to where he had started? That seemed to be the trend. Trust, lose, crumble. Trust… could he ever do it again? Even if he came out the other end of this in one piece, could he trust anyone, ever?
Could he trust those who promised to help, but who inevitably walked away? Could he trust himself, to keep the promises he made? Could he trust his own heart? Could he trust the bonds that he had created, or were they all fallible, a farce, a trick? Those bonds had been tied around his ankles and attached to solid brick, and he had been thrown into the river. He was sinking, drowning, but who out there noticed? The bonds had to be a trick. They had to be. Because if they were true bonds, they should work both ways. Those on the other end should be able to take hold of the ropes and pull him back out again. No, they would never have thrown him into the river to begin with.
There was one left. Two, maybe. But it was the one that was keeping him here, tethered to this world and keeping him from the next. Recalling that bond had him slamming back down into his own body; tattooed limbs curled in on themselves, his body jerking with the sudden awakening to consciousness. Vampires shouldn’t sweat. Jesse hadn’t felt sweat for years. But he was drenched, now. A sweat that was tinged with his own blood. The sheets beneath him were pink with it.
It felt like he was dying. Maybe he was. They didn’t know the outcome. They didn’t know it would all get better. They had all just assumed.
His gut twisted and churned. His muscled were weak, dried out. They were like gristle beneath his skin, the rough edges causing him to itch from the inside out. The fog came in waves, but when it hit, it was all-consuming. Lucidity was lost to an ache so severe that he did not feel like a man anymore. He felt like he was just an ache. The epitome of pain, tied up in a ball and given consciousness. If there was a cure, if there was a way to fix this, whether it be temporary or permanent, Jesse was beyond doing anything about it. The sharpened canines were a constant in a bleached row of white teeth. Lips were dry and cracked, and his skin sallow and grey. Even the ink was dulled, the colours weak against the ailment that plagued him.
And yet he suffered in silence. Unaware of the bed beneath him or the sheets tangled up in his limbs, Jesse suffered. His only reprieve were the daylight hours when he willingly allowed his body to be taken into sleep. Only then did he have peace.
The fog rolled in from the East. It was one of the last humid days; one of the last days that such a fog could exist. Soon, Winter would roll in thick and fast. The snow wouldn’t be intermittent, it would be constant. It would build walls around houses and hide the roads from sight. The whole world would be covered in white, and to some that might be beautiful. But to Jesse it would be dull. A world bereft of colour was not a world at all. It was a photograph, taken in black and white.
He wanted to drift away with that fog. He wanted to be carried away on the currents of the air. Where could it take him? Would he drift, lost forever, or would that wind take him all the way around the world, to bring him right back to where he had started? That seemed to be the trend. Trust, lose, crumble. Trust… could he ever do it again? Even if he came out the other end of this in one piece, could he trust anyone, ever?
Could he trust those who promised to help, but who inevitably walked away? Could he trust himself, to keep the promises he made? Could he trust his own heart? Could he trust the bonds that he had created, or were they all fallible, a farce, a trick? Those bonds had been tied around his ankles and attached to solid brick, and he had been thrown into the river. He was sinking, drowning, but who out there noticed? The bonds had to be a trick. They had to be. Because if they were true bonds, they should work both ways. Those on the other end should be able to take hold of the ropes and pull him back out again. No, they would never have thrown him into the river to begin with.
There was one left. Two, maybe. But it was the one that was keeping him here, tethered to this world and keeping him from the next. Recalling that bond had him slamming back down into his own body; tattooed limbs curled in on themselves, his body jerking with the sudden awakening to consciousness. Vampires shouldn’t sweat. Jesse hadn’t felt sweat for years. But he was drenched, now. A sweat that was tinged with his own blood. The sheets beneath him were pink with it.
It felt like he was dying. Maybe he was. They didn’t know the outcome. They didn’t know it would all get better. They had all just assumed.
His gut twisted and churned. His muscled were weak, dried out. They were like gristle beneath his skin, the rough edges causing him to itch from the inside out. The fog came in waves, but when it hit, it was all-consuming. Lucidity was lost to an ache so severe that he did not feel like a man anymore. He felt like he was just an ache. The epitome of pain, tied up in a ball and given consciousness. If there was a cure, if there was a way to fix this, whether it be temporary or permanent, Jesse was beyond doing anything about it. The sharpened canines were a constant in a bleached row of white teeth. Lips were dry and cracked, and his skin sallow and grey. Even the ink was dulled, the colours weak against the ailment that plagued him.
And yet he suffered in silence. Unaware of the bed beneath him or the sheets tangled up in his limbs, Jesse suffered. His only reprieve were the daylight hours when he willingly allowed his body to be taken into sleep. Only then did he have peace.
