That night before I went to bed I inspected the cut behind my locked bathroom door. It hadn't scabbed over yet. The incident happened this morning. IT SHOULD HAVE SCABBED OVER BY NOW.
But that wasn't the worst part. The still open wound was oozing some sort of black puss. I proceeded to put its fifth band-aid on.
2 weeks later I was quarantined in the ICU with a disease no one could explain.
I filled buckets of sweat each second. My body shook rapidly with chills. I had a fever of 118 degrees but I wasn't dead. Why wasn't I dead?!
My stomach felt empty and worthless. What ever I ate came right back up in the form of vomit.
But the worst symptom of all were the sores. They started out as small and flat, red circles all over my skin. The doctors had questioned it just being a severe case of adult chickenpox. I wish it had been.
The sores grew into huge blisters that filled with clear liquid. They were everywhere. They spread to my mouth and soon enough my saliva was carrying the illness.
When the popped was uncontrollable. Nurses would run into my room in the middle of the night to find me screaming in yet another painful puddle of puss.
I was incurable. It was similar to the smallpox plague but worse. I don't know what the disease had been up to in the vial for so long, but it had mutated. I had mutated into a monster that was so much more severe.
