Appetite for Destruction

Nothing Is Thicker Than Blood

I was pretty sure I'd died and gone to hell. 

I couldn't comprehend much, in the fog I'd spiralled down into, though the pain came through loud and clear. Fever hot-cold chills wracked my body, the headache pounding angrily through my skull in a steady thud, thud, thud that matched my heartbeat, the ache in my lungs with every breath I took. Every moment was a fresh taste of hell.

Time somehow passed between me closing my eyes and opening them. Whenever I was aware of my surroundings there was always someone sat in the chair next to me in the too-bright hospital room. It was usually Derek, holding my hand and steadily taking as much pain away as he could and offering some semblance of comfort, but Peter had been there a couple of times, sat with his ankles crossed and offering some witty rejoinder before I slipped into unconsciousness again.

I knew that I wasn't getting better. I was getting worse. Every second was a couple degrees and a few notches against my health. 

The next time I opened my eyes the room span in a nauseating swirl of colours. My head felt like it was going to explode and the chills and shakes were making every muscle in my body ache. I could hardly see straight for the nausea clouding my vision. Everything hurt. Worse than usual. When my stomach rolled I just about managed to lean over the side of the bed to throw up, surprised that I had anything in my stomach to throw up - but it tasted wrong, metallic and bitter.

Peter appeared next to me, holding me upright, but I couldn't hear what he was saying, the pounding in my head and the ringing in my ears too loud. There was oil all over the floor, dotted with little white balls of... was that mistletoe? I realized, through the haze, that the oil wasn't oil at all, it was the black blood of a rejected bite.

I blinked and the hospital room ceiling disappeared, replaced with the roof of a car. Breathing was getting harder and my chest hurt. My head hurt. My hair was wet, I could feel it plastered to my head like I'd just come out of the shower. 

Another blink, and I was suddenly in the loft. On the sofa, to be exact. There was someone next to me but I had no hope of making out who it was, putting all my energy into breathing instead and trying not to dry heave, my empty stomach churning. The pain was unrelenting. All I could do was tremble and grope around for some kind of hope that didn't exist. 

I don't know how much time passed, but the next thing I was aware of was gasping in a shuddering breath, not at all cleanly or efficiently, which would probably bother me had I had the presence of mind to be bothered. Cool air rushed down my throat, my lungs, and maybe it was too much but I couldn't stop, just kept going like I'd been underwater and this was my first intake of oxygen.

Which was... which was -

Really weird, I decided, and the fact that I could form a coherent thought startled me enough to finally exhale. Weird. Didn't I breathe yesterday? I felt my forehead wrinkle, that little line between my eyebrows and over my nose. I'd seen it in the mirror before, a million times, so I knew I was frowning.

Was I alive?

Something hard hit my face - a fact I only found worthy of note because it seemed as though I had a face. Which, by any path of logic, meant I was alive. And judging by the stinging, I could definitely feel. "Come on, wake up. Any time would be nice."

Interesting. I could hear. I didn't know whether or not I should be surprised, or intrigued. Curiosity killed the cat, or so they said - or someone said. At some point. Anyway, curiosity killed the cat. Curiosity killed... a lot of people.

Curiosity just kills, I concluded thoughtfully.

More pain, distant but present. "Breathe! You've got to breathe, idiot!"