The Citrus Syndrome

7 ; alone

Alone

Natalie

I get the call about three minutes after I break out in hives.

I have never felt this sick before in my life. Every atom in my body seems to be pushing against my skin -- my soul wants out. I couldn't stand up even if I want to. If I could, I would get myself a blanket and a towel soaked in cold water. My body shifts between burning hot and freezing cold in unpredictable intervals.

I've thrown up twice so far, both times on the floor. I can't get off the couch to go to the bathroom, anyway.

My rash is red and angry, snaking over my arms and onto my chest. I feel raw, like I'm being soaked in acid. My insides feel that way, too. One moment, they're far too big for my body, the next, they've shrunken into prunes.

All in all, it feels like a giant, prickly monster of a weed is trying to plant itself inside of me, pushing around my organs to make room for itself. And I hate it so much, I can't even think about it.

I cry for a few different reasons. One, it hurts like hell. Two, I feel so alone.

Even my cat won't come near me, tonight. I keep thinking about how this may have turned out differently, if I wasn't so alone. There wouldn't be vomit on the floor, because someone would have brought me a bowl. I would have a blanket for this hypothermic cold, and ice for this scorching heat.

Aside from all the practical reasons, I think I just want a hug. It feels good, doesn't it, when someone just envelopes you in their warmth? God, I haven't felt that in so long. I miss it, but at the same time, I don't.

I don't like people touching me. It makes me antsy.

But the phone rings three minutes after those hives start appearing, and the ring splits through my head like a blade, piercing my thoughts. I scream, but that hurts too, so I stop.

The only way to stop this horrible sound is to answer the phone, but it's so far away. I sniff, trying to collect myself. My stomach turns over, bile tickling at the back of my throat. Oh, god. Not again.

The pain of the ringing is worse than the pain in my body, though, so I lunge for the coffee table. My entire body screams in protest as I grab the phone, slamming down the button with every ounce of strength left in me. I slump onto the floor, completely devoid of energy.

Who ever is on the line says something, but I can't hear it. The phone is in my hand, and my hand is on the floor. I can't summon the will to bring it to my ear.

I remember the speaker button. I push buttons blindly until I find it.

The moment I hear the voice, I begin to sob again.

"Natalie?" He says, his voice shaking with concern. "Nattie? Nat, are you there?"

I want to answer Isaiah. My voice keeps getting stuck in my throat each time I try to, though. Finally, I manage to make a sound. "Ehh," it sounds like. My impaired word for "hi".

"Nattie, it's me? Isaiah? Are you mad? I understand, I get it, but you have to talk to me, okay? I'm on my way from Houston -- don't say anything, I know what you're thinking. It's stupid. Trust me, I know that. But I . . . I dunno, Nat, you and Bo are up in Dallas and I'm down here in Houston and suddenly I'm on this bus and I don't know what the hell I'm doing here, Nattie, but I'm --"

I cut off his rambling with a sharp cry. This one doesn't spawn from pain, but from relief. All I can think of is his strong arms around me. Even if he isn't coming to take care of me, even if he doesn't know I'm sick, I feel certain that he is my savior. He will hold me while I die. I will not fade from this world all alone.

"Are you okay?" He demands. "Oh, Natalie. You aren't . . . you aren't sick, are you?"

If I could speak, I would lie to him. He sounds scared, and he should be. Coming to the city where this virus was created? What is he thinking? But I don't want to worry him, because if he turns back and goes home, I'll fall apart. I need him here.

Last time I spoke to Isaiah was nearly a month ago. We fought. He told me that he wanted us to move in together, and I told him I just wasn't ready for that. He argued that I would never be ready for anything to further our relationship, and although he was right, I slammed down the phone and stopped taking his calls.

I remember that I cried that night. I felt pathetic, like every other little girl in over her head, all alone in an apartment off campus, trying to navigate the world of stress and boys and anxiety.

Zay moved to Houston nearly two years ago. This coming winter will mark our three year anniversary, if we manage to stay together that long. Or live that long, really.

I haven't been able to watch the news since this afternoon. I have no clue where the remote is, and hell if I'm going to look for it. I know I have a radio in the bathroom drawer, but that's insanely far away. In truth, I'm completely cut off from news about the virus. I have my pamphlet open on the coffee table in front of me, and this is the extent of my knowledge as far as TCS is concerned.

Vomiting, chills and sweats? Check. Fatigue, abdominal pain, hot flashes? Got those. Fever, muscle aches, bleeding and coughing? No bleeding yet, but yes to the rest of it. Headache, nausea and rash? Like you've never seen before.

I glance at the psychological symptoms. I haven't had any of that so far, but maybe it comes later.

"Nattie," he pleads. "Talk to me! You're freaking me out."

"I--Is," I croak. I manage to choke out, "Zay."

He's silent for a moment, then he says, "I'll be there soon, Sweetie."

"Izzy . . ."

"It's gonna be one to three hours, Nat. Traffic's terrible. Everyone wants to get out of here. I can't blame 'em."

"Is," I groan. All I can say are bits of his name.

He sighs, or maybe he's crying. I can't tell. Isaiah doesn't cry often, but then again, deadly viruses aren't unleashed often, so maybe his is. "Drink lots of water," he instructs me. "And don't let anybody in, okay? I heard that there are groups -- I'm not saying this to freak you out, Nattie, I just think you should know -- there's these groups that go around shooting infected people, trying to weed 'em out, y'know? So don't open the door."

Even though he's not being particularly reassuring, I appreciate his rambling. I want him to stay on the phone until he gets here, until he's right up at my door.

"And keep watching the news, alright? Keep yourself updated. Maybe they'll find out something important, who knows? Okay, Nats. I want to save my phone battery, cause I don't know if I'll get to charge it anytime soon . . . connection's horrible, anyway. I'll talk to you when I get there, okay, Sweetie? Okay. Take care of yourself until I get there, Nattie. Bye."