Meridian ◈ Seungjin

13 ◈ Blighted

Forewarning: Descriptions of nausea, mentions of vomiting in the first half.

Hyunjin stared down the grilled cheese sandwich.

Eat it.

It was staring back at him.

It's been three days now, no matter how disgusting it smells, you need to eat.

His finger prodded at the food. It warbled with the gesture, the burnt bread holding it's languid body together fluctuating with the pressure shoved into it's sides. Another foul whiff of air arose from it's folds as it jiggled, the smell of a moldy sock growing old with the intended heat of a summer day assaulting his nose and promoting him to cover it before it could grow maggots in his sinuses. His friends didn't seem to notice. They continued to chatter, acting as if their own lunches they were voraciously eating didn't give off that same disgusting smell. As if nothing was wrong with the world. Evidently, the pained looks in their direction went unnoticed under the gleeful words from the others. His eyes vacantly stared at the decorated meals, a sunken feeling depriving them of the usually intensity they kept, drawing from the light throb in his head telling him to at least nibble on what he assumed used to be cheese gooping out from the sides.

Hyunjin took the grilled cheese sandwich in his hands. He inspected it, flipping the greasy ends around to check the other side for possible hints of danger. Besides the entire thing. But, it had to be done, right? Even if the fever wasn't entirely gone, even if he was fairly sure he wasn't truly sick with a common cold. There was something more. Something more sinister crawling about underneath the flaps of the sandwich. It was just a matter of what that feeling popping in his ears was, the one causing heartbeats to drum in his ears, blocking his senses are the hours snailed along, coating his tongue in a sweet substance tempting him on. A strange sensation, and luckily no one had picked up on the hints of it's existence. Not even him at times.

With a hesitant huff of encouragement, he let his fangs sink into the sandwich.

And there was nothing wrong with it.

It smelled like a compost pile, looked about as appetizing as one, but tasted fine. Not sour like the potato chips. So he took another bite, and another, and another, until the sandwich was gone from his hands and his stomach was pleased with the offering, missing the queasiness stirring with every bite he took.

As he tried to listen in to his friend's conversations, that nausea grew. It began to tidal wave, roaring with an inescapable dizziness whirling his head around until it was broken against the floors and lunchroom tables. No matter how hard he tried to pretend to be interested in their topics, the voices started to drown, dissolving to nothing but reverberating echos in the strong acids forcing themselves up his throat. His nails met the healing scratches on his skin. The crescent shapes began to dig into the tough flesh, holding on to steady the vertigo sending violent coughs through his body and choking him alive. As large as the cafeteria was, it was suffocating. There was nowhere to go, nowhere to breathe, and the retching serrating along his esophagus only lit his nostrils in kerosene.

He kicked away from the table, the bottom of his shoe ramming into the supports underneath to shove him back and, paired with the faintness engulfing his nerves, almost knocked him out of the seat. Minho grabbed the elbow of his uniform blazer to steady him, the poor fabric nearly tearing apart at the harsh yank keeping him from meeting the ground. That seemed to be enough for the attention to be on him; His friend's mouths began moving as their eyes trained on him, they began speaking, asking questions, interrogating, and yet all he could focus on was their fangs peaking from behind moving lips. All his mind let him fixate on was the sharpness of the edges, the strength of the jaw biting down on it's victim, how all of that existed for them to be killers. They were no different to the serial killer running rampant.