Amnesia (Completed, Being Edited)

Four: Sick and Smiling

So tell me the name of an idiot who decides to go out in the freezing cold of January London without even a Jacket?

Caleb Fucking Winters, that's who.

What's worse, is that in the line for the doll, I was in front of a man who was sneezing and coughing nonstop. When I came home I was feeling a bit stuffy, and I blamed it entirely on the cold. Obviously, I was wrong.

Evetta woke me up at two a.m. to inform me that I was roasting, and that she wanted me to take Panadol Cold and Flu; she then all but shoved the two tablets down my throat, and pushed a glass of water into my hands. That's when I realised that Sir Germs A Lot fucked me over.

She's been taking my temperature every half an hour ever since.

"104.5. That's still high," she sighs.

I feel like shit. My insides feel hot, and everything outside feels cold. My nose is clogged, so when I talk, I sound like Barney.

Then, something occurs to me.

"Aren't you supposed to be at work?"

She looks at me as if I'm retarded.

"You're sick."

"You have a job."

"I also have a boyfriend who can't even breathe through his nose."

"I can take care of myself," I insist, feeling like so many different kinds of shit. "Go to work," I order her.

"No," she replies.

"Evetta, I don't need anyone to take care of me; please go to work." I can't have her miss work to take care of me.

"I'd rather not."

I sigh in frustration.

Of course, as per usual, I internalise that frustration. I'm supposed to take care of her, yet here I am, helpless as ever. Again.

"Stop."

"Huh?" I say, at a complete loss as to what she is talking about.

"Stop blaming yourself. I don't mind missing work to take care of you; I really don't. Please stop being so dramatic."

I nod at her, saying nothing. She sighs.

"Go to sleep, Caleb. You look tired."

I pretend that I didn't hear her.

"I want to hear you play the violin."

She looks at me surprised.

"I haven't played in a while—"

"Then make something up," I say teasingly. She shoots me a glare and I backtrack.

"Okay," I say, chuckling. "What about 'Twinkle Twinkle Little Star'"?

She smiles at me.

"I would, but I don't have any rosin."

"Yes, you do. Look in the bottom of the bag."