Withering World 1 [MCSM Fanfiction]

RAVAGEMENT: Chapter 51

Jesse

If any one of them had asked me to count how many fingers they're holding up, I'd most likely get the answer wrong. Each day, the tint of my room grows more purple, thanks to my deceptive vision.

Is there even a point in fighting?

"Jesse, can you hear me?"

There's an exasperated voice, though I can't make out who it belongs to. A feminine voice that's for sure.

"P-Pet-?"

"No, Jesse. It's me, Olivia," she says.

Her figure is more visible now, small and slim. I recognize her two pigtails topped with a beanie, not bandana.

Apart from the unconfident tone in her voice, I hear a sniffle which easily morphs into a sob, blaring a code red into my heart. "Are- you... cr- cry-ing?"

She doesn't answer. The engine of my mind runs under pure terror. After all this time of sickness torture... just for me not to survive in the end?

"You'll be fine, you'll be fine." She cracks. Even through my half-withered mind and practically useless nervous system, I can tell she's lying. My breathing turns shallow, not that it already was.

"Okay - okay, okay, okay. I don't know what's gonna happen to you, Jesse. You've had..." At first, I believe she's forgotten how to finish her sentence, but each passing second tells me that every word is harder to say, and her composure ruptures. "You've had every single symptom of the Engulfment stage! I don't know if you're at the final one."

I recall that being at the final stage gives me no chance of surviving. Ravagement - the point in sickness where there's no return.

"I don't know if you'll make it."

Correction: 'I don't think you'll make it'.

"Jesse," she says, trying to reduce the amount of times I speak, "we have the cure. As soon as it was finished, I took it with me and rushed to you as fast as I could."

Both of her hands cradle a round-bottom flask, half-filled with liquid, which I presume is a radiant, neon blue. The key to a possible revival is only mere inches away from me. That's the antidote and last solution that could bring me back.

This is the worst mystery I'll ever have to live through (or not). Will it even be worth taking the cure?

I hope, hope, hope it is.

Olivia opens the flask. "Are you ready?"

That's not even a valid question in my books. Of course I'm ready. More than ready. Fervently, ardently, superfluously ready.

She takes whatever answer it looks like I gave as a yes, pulling her chair which lets out a soft screech from the tension between its legs and the floor closer to me.

Then, she pops open the cork and the bubbles of the blue elixir glint in my eyes. My heart has never raced so fast.

The engineer carefully handles the bottle, tipping it as out reaches my lips. I give in to the sweet-sourish liquid, with no choice but to have an indestructible faith that this will heal me.

Once I finish chugging down every single drop of antidote, I get back to routine, shrinking down in my bed to rest my hardworking back.

"How do you feel?" asks Olivia.

It was no doubt the sweetness of the honey was present, and so was the dash of floral bitterness from the oxeye daisy. There was no taste of the other ingredients, perhaps meaning they've canceled each other out. Either way, there doesn't seem to be the slightest bit of change in my body, no inkling of strength conceiving anywhere as the cure's flavor fades.

"I feel... indifferent," I splutter.

Since it doesn't make me feel better, no matter how hard I try to sense it, the ultimate option is for me to feel worse.

"Maybe it doesn't happen right away. You've had the sickness for almost two months. Maybe it'll take days to recover."

Then I guess I'll be dragged under excruciating suspense for days.

Fear is dominating my mind. And if I don't recover? It'll take roughly a week for me to wither to dust.

"I'm so sorry, Jesse. I wasn't supposed to break down like that for you to witness. It's not good for your health. It's just- I hate this so much!"

"Liv, I'll b- be fine." My own brain is trying to catch up with my words. "Let's just- hope for the best."

"If you die, Petra's gonna shatter. All of us are. I- I- I can't fathom how Lukas isn't here anymore," I believe her emotions are robbing her of her self-control once more, judging by the fact that her pitch rises with audible tremors in her breath, "but you? Jesse, we can't lose you. You glue us together. You've been there from the start."

Most people live to leave a mark or make a drastic change in the world. Others do it to pursue a passion or fulfill their dreams.

I don't live for any of those. I don't live for my heroing or my leadership, nor do I live for my responsibilities, or fame, or skill, or desire.

No.

Before all of that, the reason has always been my friends.

I live for them.

Death? Life? Ravagement? Engulfment? Which stage am I really on?

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