Dormant

12

Who the hell is he anyway?
He never really talks much,
Never concerned with status,
But still leaving them star struck,
Humbled through opportunities given despite the fact,
That many misjudge him because he makes a living from writing raps,
Put it together himself,
now the picture connects,
Never asking for someone's help,
Or to get some respect,
He's only focused on what he wrote,
His will is beyond reach,
And now it all unfolds,
The skill of an artist.

-Fort Styles feat Styles of Beyond, Remember the Name

12

To say that Death's day had been... interesting just didn't seem to fully reach out to how extremely weird that it was.

Currently he sat on the couch, glaring at the disgusting drink that Jessica had brought him yet again. A blanket had been draped over his shoulders -it actually hadn't moved all day- and he was wearing a thick, itchy faded red sweater that Jessica had unearthed from Lord knows where. It still smelled like dust. The entire day he had spent here, sitting on this couch. The only time that he was 'allowed' to get up on was when he either had to use the bathroom, needed to get Jessica, was hungry, or felt like he was going to vomit. He was forced to go outside when Jessica had to feed her insane chickens, where she had claimed that the fresh air would do him some good. The only thing that he had gotten out of that entire event was that:

A) Jessica's chickens were crazy. They literally attacked him when they saw him and he had to fend for himself with the blanket that he refused to part with while Jessica laughed nearby and he cursed the birds to eternity in several different languages.

B) The so-called fresh air had smelt like chicken dung and probably hundreds of other animals. The 'fresh' air had failed to do anything for him besides from giving him a large headache that he was still struggling to get rid of.

C) Don't go anywhere near the chickens. They pecked the boots that he had been given and had pulled a small hole in the leg of his jeans.

D) Never trust Jessica to assist him in life-or-death situations.

E) And, lastly, all of Jessica's animals were crazy and probably all needed to die or deserved to burn in hell.

Besides from being attacked by chickens, Death had learned a few things. Jessica seemed content with leaving him trapped inside of her house for the time being. She had explained to him, while she had been giving him another round of endless pills halfway through the day, that he most likely had a serious case of the flu. His fevers, which was why he felt so cold but his forehead was burning, and countless of other symptoms were just plain signs that he was sick. Every human caught it, she had told him. Apparently, even though he was a Horseman and a Nephilim, he was no exception. So, as a result, Jessica refused to let him step outside the house or do anything, as a matter of fact, until he was healthy again. Which really wasn't fair. His two younger and much more irresponsible brothers (War had accidentally triggered an End War and Strife just did everything wrong) were interacting and being trusted with complicated jobs on a delicate system such as Jessica's farm, where, if they messed up, could possibly cause Jessica, John, the Horsemen, and the animals to have no food supplies.

Yeah, that was smart.

Death turned his nose up at the steaming cup of tea that was before him. Jessica had already given him three cups today to try and assist in clearing up his sinuses and soothe his sore throat. The tea didn't work -it just burned whenever he drank it. And it tasted awful. After the second cup, Death had just responded by slinging the contents out one of the windows. Jessica thought that he had drank every single one. He wasn't going to be the one who told her that he actually hadn't.