Nausea: Sequel to Warcrossed

Perfect

I hated the word 'if'. I hated the word 'maybe'.

"Maybe he'll be okay."

"If only we could figure this out."

"If he can just hold on, maybe we can help him."

"Screw you," I'd say.

There was no helping him. I'd be the one to know.

They were all hopelessly optimistic dreamers. Even if you were a sensible observer, just looking at him you could tell he wasn't going to make it.

He was laid flat on his back, fever spiked to a hundred and four, sweat slicking his hair to his pale face, red the only color in his cheeks, covered partially by an oxygen mask. An IV stood beside a monitor, the needle in the back of the same hand the clip on his thumb was. As much as it would be nice for him to get better, it was worse to hope. Acceptance was a good shortcut from even more heartache.

I stayed beside him in an uncomfortable chair, clutching his hand, trying to remember when it was warm and soft and alive.

The one I held now was near soaked, with sweat and with tears. I ran my thumb over the wristband he was wearing.

Gilbert du Motier de Lafayette
Sex: M
Age: 20
Fall Risk

I laughed a little. As if he'd be able to get up to fall. No risk.

We'd been there for two days now. He'd woken a few times, completely out of it. I was certain he was blind, and his brain was scrambled, and he'd been in pain last night.

His face had twisted into something horrifying, and he'd only been able to cry. His grip had tightened on my hand, still weak. He'd begged me to help him, and I couldn't do anything but sit there and try and calm him.

I'd tried everything: cupping his face and rubbing over his cheek with my thumb like he liked when we broke from a kiss, whispering to him, shushing him like a baby, hugging him... everything.

He eventually passed out, and he hadn't moved since.

I wanted it to be over already. I wanted him to go ahead and die so that I could leave and he wouldn't suffer anymore.

But I was stuck there with him, with an empty version of the person I loved most in the world.

I let go of his hand and pressed a kiss to his head, gently. Heat came from it, and I could feel it an inch away. His fever was probably one hundred and five now, maybe one hundred and six.

He'd scold me for using Fahrenheit. I could hear him in the back of my head.

'We're not even in America, every other country uses Celsius. Every single one.'

He wasn't actually speaking, but he might as well have been with how real his voice sounded. I could never forget his voice.

In my thoughts, I hadn't noticed him stir awake until he whimpered.

"Shh," I soothed, by instinct. "Shh, shh, shh..."

"John...?"

"Yeah. It's John. I'm here. I'm right here." I grabbed his hand again, but quickly put it down. There was the pressure of an object poking my thigh from inside my pocket, and I remembered why I'd left to go get it before. I reached in and ran my thumb along the plastic tube.

"Don't leave. Please," he begged, his voice like broken glass compared to the mental version.

"I'm not. It's okay. I love you."

"I love you too..." He coughed and fell back again, choking on tears. Probably in pain again.

I took out his IV, leaving the needle and port in his hand and taking the syringe out of my pocket. It pierced through the rubber easily, and when I pushed the plunger down, it took only a moment for him to close his eyes for the last time. There wasn't a breath left in him by the time I pulled the needle out. Quick and almost painless, just like it needed to be. No point in dragging his life on when it was just going to end in suffering. I felt no guilt.

I put the saline drip back into place, tossed the syringe in the red biohazard bin, and walked out, leaving no evidence of what I had just done behind. Not in the room, not in my hands, not in his blood.

It was the perfect murder.