So... I don't know why, but I'm really- er- attached to this? Yes, attached is the right word. Anyway, I'm attached to it because the subject- that slow plague that starts with something and then builds and builds until it devours you- is something I have quite a bit of experience with.
So yeah.
~o~
Luce Worth is a plagued man.
It's a kind of quiet plague, no one dares hear it except him, but it shows. It shows through under eye circles and blank expressions, through hands that are bandaged because he can't stop obsessing over them, picking at their fraying edges in some vague attempt to make those edges perfect because those hands are his key to a job, and through a job he'll find happiness, right?
The plague starts with an obsession that seeps in while he sleeps. It invades his dreams, a cold chill that he dreads, an odd ghostly figure with frozen, long fingers that grope and tug at his edges.
Eventually he stops sleeping because he can't stand it anymore. He's terrified of the figures.
And so the plague finds its way into his waking moments. Now it comes in the form of hazy hallucinations- the product of sleep deprivation, no doubt. He is followed constantly by small children and a variety of animals. One day he realizes that he really hates kids now- there go his plans of being a good father.
But that's not enough. The plague builds, builds, overlapping layers that incase him, blinding him until all his senses have dulled to near non-existence. It's not unlike a tomb. Indeed, the plague is making a tomb for it's victim. Somehow he understands it. Somehow he doesn't do anything to stop it.
Eventually he realizes that he can't taste the steak he's devouring. So he stops eating because it's not fun anymore. Soon after he loses his sense of smell, and with it goes a sliver of his humanity. He watches the sliver leave and smiles ever so slightly, knowing he'll never be able to regain it.
And so the plague sinks into his bones. He can barely feel the gentle touch of his girlfriend who is worried, and the punches that come from his frustrated best friend are no more than a slight burning sensation.
He adapts. To feel, he explores his veins with needles. The plague evolves and soon he loses his ability to feel even the harshest jabs. He begins to amuse himself with poking and digging in his flesh. He always did like dissection.
And as the plague starts to close up his last chance of escape, his family asks questions he can't hear, and he responds with a smile and a simple "fuck you" before leaving.
The tomb is sealed. His PhD is a dream he once had- something he can barely recall. He can't remember why it mattered in the first place.
And then somewhere somehow he's on a bus. Outside, the world is watercolor, greens and blues and greys all intertwining and running together. The scenery blurs as the world begins running past the dirty windows. He can't remember where he's going. He hopes it's somewhere coast-ish.
The buzz of people surrounds him- and it remains a quiet buzz. A brief flash of bedraggled red and pink jumps on the bus, walks down the isle and takes a seat beside him. He thinks the smudge of red and pink is talking to him, asking if he's alright, but he can't distinguish it over the gentle buzz. It all blends in anyway.
Long quivering fingers brush across his face. The plague falters, recoiling at human touch. It has been so long.
A select few low notes on a piano sound somewhere, echoing in his somewhat blank head. They echo clearly. Clarity, like crisp fresh air, leaks through the tomb.
His sunken eyes open wide.
And the sky turns iridescent.
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