Fever Dream
H. C. Smith
H. C. Smith
Spoiler
Contest entry. Theme: Your story is about a soldier in a mental institution catching a cold. Word count: 998
I’m so sick.
Creed tilted his head back and exposed his face to the lights of his room. All he could feel upon his face was the fire of a raging fever. He pleaded within himself to be freed of the sickness.
He closed his heavy eyes, plunging himself into darkness. They felt slick under his eyelids. All Creed could see was the bloodshed and destruction of war. The memories of his former life as a soldier were stitched to his pupils. He wanted to escape from it, but the ghosts of his past were unavoidable.
His memories lingered within his strong joints, weighty muscles, and quick nerves. He could not evade the agony war had left in him. The pain of the battles lived on like a haunting dream in his body.
Creed let out a struggled breath through broken lips. He sat on the edge of his bed as the frigidness of the tiled floors bled into his feet. He curled his toes, taking in the delicious cold with longing. He groaned with rapture. His mouth twitched, perhaps with the purpose of a grin.
Sweet relief.
He lowered his face into his hands. Rubbing his clammy palms across his face, he hoped to wipe away the fever with his sweat. The stubble on his jaw prickled his fingers. He could feel cold perspiration drip down his back beneath his light hospital gown.
Creed was desperate for medicine. His fever was twisting his head. All of his dreams were sickening hallucinations. The dark regions within his skull whirled with nauseating delusions of war. He clenched his teeth as visions of mangled corpses and rivers of blood filled his thoughts.
He pleaded within his heavy heart: Free me of this. God, free me! He could feel madness creeping into his mind, fueled by the venomous fire of his infection.
Creed put his hands into his lap and opened his eyes to his room. It was identical to every other confinement in the mental health institution. The fluorescent lights bathed the white tiled floors, colorless walls, and the porcelain sink and toilet in a sickly, insipid light.
Beyond the white drywall of his room, Creed could hear the faint howls of other patients within the asylum. It fed a monstrous fear in him. He trembled as everlasting suffering sang to him from the walls.
Oh God, I need medicine. His fever was becoming an obsession.
He forced himself to stand, his thighs quivering beneath his gown. Creed swayed on his feet and the room became a blur. He groaned and clutched his head in his hands.
Before he could topple, Creed stumbled across the room to the sink and braced himself against it. His flexing forearms quaked so much, he thought they would shatter. His fingers trembled against the cool porcelain.
In the asylum, there were no glass mirrors, but polished metal took its place. It was not as clear, but it sufficed. Creed’s pale blue eyes were bloodshot. His face was repulsively pale. Beads of sweat speckled his shaved head and sturdy brow. His slender nose, sharp cheekbones, and a chiseled chin made him appear skeletal.
Creed fumbled with the faucet. Still studying his reflection, he dipped his fingers in the frigid stream of water and splashed his face and neck. He sighed in relief as his fever was temporarily smothered.
His eyes flickered down at the sink, but pouring from the spout in a steady stream was a dark, endless torrent of blood.
Horror became his reality. A senseless shout rushed from his lips. Creed pulled his hands away from it and stumbled backward. He tripped and went sprawling across the floor.
Blood! Blood!
Creed’s heart thundered in his chest. He gazed up at the sink and watched the blood spill over the side of it. It became a crimson pool upon the white floor.
He crawled away from the approaching flood. Creed frantically pulled himself across the floor. He forced himself to his feet and he threw his weight against the door of his room, trying to unbolt it with his sturdy shoulder.
Blood! Blood!
It was pooling around his feet now. He cringed as it touched him. The blood was like ice. It warped his mind, pushing him to the edge of insanity.
“Help!” He screamed through the door with every bit of breath his lungs could gather. He beat the doorway with his shoulder. “Help me!”
Suddenly, the hinges on the door buckled and Creed went toppling into the hallway of the asylum. His back smacked the tile floor. He whimpered as he clambered away on his hands and feet. The blood was spilling into the hallway.
Like a black fan, the blood rushed out across the white tiles with incredible speed. The frigid flood washed across his feet and legs. It spilled into his gown and slithered past his thighs and buttocks. It poured between his fingers.
So much blood!
Creed began to tremble and cry. He lifted his bloodied fingers and they crawled across his shaved head. He squeezed his eyes shut.
Mr. Leary. A voice echoed in his ears like an angel’s. Creed, wake up.
Creed awakened.
He was no longer in the hallway. Creed was in his room, in his bed.
The blood was gone.
“Creed.” He opened his eyes to the young nurse, Bella Reach. She held a glass of water in one hand and cradled Creed’s head in the other. Her wide eyes gazed at him. Her long blond hair framed her beautiful, heart-shaped face. Her lips formed a lovely smile. Creed was comforted to see her.
In Bella’s lap was a small bottle of aspirin. Oh God, medicine.
He breathed excitedly. Perspiration made his skin slick, making his gown and bed sheets stick to him. He panted, “So… much… blood.”
“Calm down, Mr. Leary.” Bella’s delicate fingers brushed his skin tenderly. “Sweetheart, it was just another dream. You’re very sick.”
Creed was sick in so many ways.
