The Afflicted

Oblivion

I remember the way the pathogen felt as it entered my system. It was like taking a too hot bath from the inside out, and then having a freezing shower while being submerged in the boiling bath of water. It was a constant battle of who would win; me or the pathogen.

I liked to think that I fought it, the pathogen, all the way through; with out a rest. But I know in my heart, that I gave up. I felt my heart give its last beat in the world before the pathogen took it away. I drifted off in to the darkness that was in my mind and my soul; that was a part of me.

I thought in my unconscious mind that if I gave up, the pain and suffering would be over. The agony didn't quit, it only increased.

The torment was unbearable, the feeling of your skin being ripped off and your brain being melted was the only feeling that I could conjure that would sum up the pain that the disease kept causing.

I felt like this for what seemed like forever, and I had figured in my state that it would never stop; no matter how much I begged and pleaded for it to go away. My body, mind, and spirit was forever the pathogens.

In the oblivion to get away from the torture, I would think of Shirley and Henry; my grandma and grandpa. Shirley was the best cook in the world, hence why she was a famous chef before shit hit the fan.

At the ripe age of 68, you would have never guessed my grandma was that old. At first look you would see a woman in her late forties. The only sign that would lead to her being older was her shock of white hair.

Light blonde to platinum hair was a trade mark in our family. Each generation the hair becoming more and more lighter as it passes down through the DNA.

I would give anything to see Shirley's crystal white hair again. Or to taste her rich and mouth watering meals at dinner time.

I loved my grandma. She was a strong and respected woman amongst our neighbors in the Sterile district, but my grandpa was my hero.

My Grandpa Henry was a multi billionaire with a sarcastic and cold attitude that was passed down to me. Grandpa Henry and I were dark and brooding in our own ways; I was said to have brought down the temperature in the room while Grandpa Henry made a room feel small and insignificant in his presence.

You would think that we would clash and butt heads constantly, but we both took comfort in the thought of us being realistic while everyone else is completely mad.

People hoped for a better life; a one not filled with the dead shambling about in an unusual manner, tearing off the flesh and meat of a friend or foe.

My Grandpa and I knew that life would never get better in the one I was born into. A death packed melancholy life was the one I was born in. The dead ruled the streets where the living used to thrive at. There were many places where the dead still haunted.

Some small spots in the world were still free of the pecilince. Places like the one I lived in my whole life that were protected and "safe" from the diseased and poverty ridden were among them. These few and far inbetween places were called the "Sterile districts."

The Sterile district consisted of mostly the old and wealthy. Those who had money passed down from generation to generation would often find themselves allowed entry into the Sterile district.

The poverty ridden people; the ones who lived with very little or had a middle class life were accepted also, but for darker reasons. These people were called the numbered.