Diseased

What really made us move...see it through my eyes.

 

  The darkness that creeps into your vision is like the end, clawing at you incessantly. Try coughing so hard, that you suffocate slowly; growing frightened with each second that ticks by without a new breath. No air can enter your lungs, as they cough up an abomination that does not exist.

  When you finally win the battle, all you can do is cry and choke on your tears, coughing again. Even as you realize that this round isn’t that severe, fear does not leave your mind, not even for a second.

  So many of your doctors can’t explain why every vessel in your eyes has burst, so that the whites are reds. They call it bronchitis, and prescribe inhalers that don’t even dent the problem. They x-ray your lungs and tell you to stop breathing, the very thing you fear above all, just for a second. They can’t see the unstoppable virus ravaging through your blood, trying to pull you to the other side.

  Soon, the cold slaps you in the face, leaving a sharp sting on your cheek. You dare to inhale, tears stinging almost as much as the wind, completing one breath. The cursed air spears through your lungs, causing another onslaught of coughs, and the blackness returns. Do you fall? You can’t tell in the dark, as tiny and insignificant you are. You are a light that can be snuffed, after fate gets done playing with you.

  Your mother cries almost as much as you do, but you’re not supposed to hear.

  “My baby is only in fourth grade! My poor, poor baby…” she sobs over the phone.

  “Miss, we can help you.” The man on the receiver says. You wrestle a cough back, and escape to your tiny bedroom, praying for a ray of warmth. If there had been anything funny, you can’t laugh anyway. The Fates want you to laugh, so they can take away your air, and your light. They want you to be lost in the darkness, forever.

  “It’s whooping cough.” A new doctor says. He is small, and Chinese. You can tell by his accent, and the random letters on his nametag. “We will have to test, to be sure.”

  Mother’s voice goes up in pitch, “As with…needles?”

  The doctor shakes his head disapprovingly.

  “The vaccine should have worked. She is one of the two percent of people in the world that had this vaccine…and had it not work for them.” The doctor leaves, and Mother whispers to herself.

  “Damn the hospital. How could they be wrong?”

  You only wish to sit and laugh, but you’re afraid of the dark that comes when you cough. You’re petrified at the thought of needles stabbing through your skin ferociously, but it has to be done. At first, they prick you three times on the right arm, unable to find the vein. Then they prick your left, succeeding. Your heart flies miles per minute as you see the needle enter your flesh and draw blood. The vile fill with substance, and you sob from fright, unable to look away. Endlessly, they take from you, promising cookies. Endlessly, you think only of that needle, the source of more pain and fear than even the darkness. Suddenly, the needle is ripped from your skin. Bloodcurdling screams tear out of your throat, expressing pain, fright, and panic to anyone in earshot. You find it hard to remember the rest of that accursed day…

  A month rolls by, and the disgusting pink medicine is gone. You have a week’s supply more of chalky, purple pills that drain the liquid from your mouth, so that you starve for water.

  “We’re moving, honey.” Mother says. She’s been able to smile with you, and laughs to hear you giggle. Finally, you can giggle, at the very least. Packing would be a breeze, and soon you’d be exposed to a place where air, even cold air, would not be your enemy. You could laugh endlessly and only see the light, forever. The abomination lays dormant in your lungs, but your will alone can suppress it. Hope will shine for guidance, and a new day will dawn. Those hills, and that school next to all those cows…they’re a blessing nobody could understand.

  Cleaner, life-preserving air fills your lungs as you inhale deeply. It is March of the healing year, and all you can do is laugh.

 

Author's Note

I wouldn't wish this on the most evil person in the world.
If you found yourself gasping for breath at the start, and sighing
with relief at the end; you've effectively been shown...
exactly what it's like to have whooping cough.

What do you think?
If you have any questions about the disease; please ask them.
I will answer with what I know.

Reviews

[Daiku Maryu]

I generally don't like stories written in second person (I nearly always think that I don't think like that). But this was good, eventhough I dislike second person.

I do have some problems with the narrative--if it's from a young child's point of view, shouldn't they be using less complex words?

And, btw, what disease is it?

[Wildfleour]

I think you need to pick a point-of-view. If it is from you (young child's point-of-view), what are you thinking? feeling? Why do you laugh?

Make this more personal.

[Justin Tobey]

Enthralling. You create powerful emotions here, showing us exactly what it felt like to be afraid of your very breath. Being sick is rough, and this sounds like it was an absolute nightmare.

Great write. :)

[Dustin Chang]

My god that was intense. You lived through that? Great piece of writing that got me by the throat, literally with the first sentence. Whew-y!