The Citrus Syndrome

20 ; risk

Risk

Bo

I think there must be a limit to how much pain a human can feel before they just stop. I must have hit that threshold awhile ago.

I feel things, but they are muted and uncolorful. The physical and emotional pain have both faded into a monotonous buzz in my head, forming a steady pulse of dread in my core. It's there, but I can't react to it. I can't cry or scream or groan. All I can do is lay here on my side, my eyes closed to shield myself from the horror show unfolding around me.

Vi is crying, of course. It seems like she always is. They took Faith away a few minutes ago (or was it hours? I can't tell) to cover the body and add it to the stack of corpses they have collected outside. I said nothing. After all, I felt no connection to the tiny blue body anymore. What is a baby with no screams, no cries, no coos or shrieking giggles? What is a baby without the rise and fall of its little stomach, without the scrunching of its miniature face when it smiles?

What it is is nothing. It affects me the way strange art does: I know I should feel something and I could see how some people might, yet I only feel the powerful desire to move on because the only emotion I feel is uncomfortable.

The basement has grown more crowded. Now, every bed and cot have two people squeezed onto it and every inch of floorspace is sullied by dirty human bodies. My skin crawls with the lack of hygiene in this place.

People come and go sometimes, but not much. For the most part, we stay here choking in our own sour decay. It feels like Purgatory and I can't help but wish to die and move on to Heaven.

But someone does come down the stairs, now. I hear their heavy footsteps descending, but I lack the curiosity and strength to turn and see who it is. Probably someone from the library coming to fetch some more Tylenol.

The footsteps don't stop, though. They keep tramping along until I heard the distinct slap of a shoe landing on the floor right behind me. A shiver goes down my spine. Who is this person standing so silently behind me?

I feel a warm hand on my back, tapping my shoulder.

I moan, meaning to ask who are you? The person doesn't answer. Submitting myself to the pain of movement, I gently remove Violet's arms from around my waist and force myself to roll over on my back.

Standing above me is a startlingly familiar face. Peeking at me from behind the cloth of her hijab is Ghania, the quiet intern from back when things were normal. She looks generally unchanged from how I remember her. Her clothes are clean and her skin still looks its usual mocha brown color. She must be one of the few who remain uninfected.

I blink at her, expecting her to say something. Instead, she stares like I was the one who should be talking.

Furrowing my brow, I say, "Ghania?"

She nods.

"Um. . ." I don't really know what else to say. My side is growing hot with Vi's tears as she sobs into my shirt. I tangle my fingers into her hair, combing through it with slow, careful strokes. Knots unravel beneath my fingertips, bouncing back into perfect, tiny curls. Faith had inherited those wooly, coiled ringlets and the same almost-black color of Violet's hair. "Do you need something?" I ask Ghania with a cough. Talking doesn't feel too good.

She nods, giving my shoulder another tap and beckoning for me to follow her.

"Wait, wait," I croak. "I can't -- I can't just go with you. Where are you taking me?"

Ghania shakes her head, motioning again.

"Is someone hurt?" I ask. To my surprise, I've guessed correctly. Ghania nods. "Who? Is it . . ." I'm about to guess when I realize there's only one person it could be. Only one person in this place who would wish for my help above everyone else's. "Is it Cat?"

Another solemn nod. I feel my hands start to shake. What's going on with Cat and why does she need my help? "What's wrong with her? Other than the virus," I add. But isn't that what's wrong with us all? "Is she dying?"

Ghania visibly shivers. She gives me a twitchy nod that tells me she isn't exactly sure.

The idea of Cat on her deathbed is enough to jolt me into action. I take Violet's hands, guiding her arms away from my body as gently as I can. My heart is beating like a jackhammer, urging me to break away without another word, but I force myself to stay calm. "Vi?" I whisper. "Sweetie, I'll be right back. Just stay right here."

She gives a desperate squeal, reaching out for the back of my shirt, but I slip out of her reach before her hand closes around the fabric. Leaning down, I press a quick kiss to her forehead and pray that she will still be alive when I return.

Ghania supports me with her arm which I am grateful for; without her by my side, I would fall flat on the floor the moment I stood up. We walk close to the wall, pausing every few seconds so I can catch my breath.

We walk past legions of sick people. They seem to be appearing exponentially like bacteria, every one creating two more. I can't stand to look at them because they reflect back at me my own sad state: scared, sick, and terrifyingly mortal.

The stairs look like Mount Everest when we reach them. My stomach clenches at the mere thought of climbing them. Already, my entire body is covered in sweat and I feel like I might vomit. "There's no way," I rasp.

But Ghania tugs my arm, her face saying, we don't have time for this.

A thick brew of hopelessness trickles into my lungs, immobilizing me. "Ghania," I say, my voice sounding far away. "Please. I just can't do this. Take me back--"

I am too late. She has already started up the stairs and is bringing me with her whether I like it or not.

In order to make my limbs move, I picture my destination: Cat. I imagine her sitting at the top of the staircase, her face gray with illness and her eyes alight with content at the sight of me.

I know this imagining is only an unhealthy delusion. The fact is, Cat will not be waiting for me at the top of the stairs nor at the end of the hall. She will be many, many steps away and finding her will lend me to many, many more minutes of torture.

But for her, it is a risk I'm willing to take.