Bodysnatcher

Cemetery Drive

and they found you on the bathroom floor

Despite it being in the minus degrees outside, by the time Frank gets back to the house, He’s sweating. His fever is back, pounding through his blood and sticking to his skin along with his sweat thick clothes. He feels terrible, dizzy and nauseous and he’s so [/tired/].

He used to get sick a lot as a kid too, but it was never like this. Sure, belts of pneumonia often left him aching and boiling and on the brink of insanity and some of the worst colds did a number on his breathing techniques but it was never like this. He always got better when he was a kid, now he’s lucky if he gets a days rest.

He curses god habitually as he enters the house and peels off his jumper. He’s pretty sure he’s going to throw up. He hasn’t eaten much today but the few mouthfuls of pancake he had with Ray and Bob earlier are starting to gnaw and rattle in his stomach threateningly and swallowing is getting harder. His tongue feels too big for his mouth, lolling uselessly around his teeth and gums like a dethatched piece of flesh. Now he really is going to throw up.

He makes it to the bathroom before the lurch in his stomach hits his throat but he’s not quite at the toilet when the first of his sick escapes. He coughs and gags for a little while then before retching one more time, sending another wave of wasted nutrition into the toilet. [/Nice/] he thinks and tries to wipe his mouth.

His arms are useless; not even really holding him up anymore, he slumps against the toilet bowl and rests his head of the ceramic. He can smell his own puke, it’s almost enough to set him off again. It hasn’t been this bad in a while but, whatever this thing is, it’s back now with some kind of vengeance.

Frank spits lazily into the bowl and watches in horror as a string of red hangs in spitty beads from his lips. His blood drips into the water. Frank stares; nearly all of what he chucked up was blood, it swirls malevolently in the water as Frank chokes on a hysterical laugh. He’s puking blood, legitimately puking up blood.

But then he’s not laughing because he’s holding back a scream as another headache rips through his skull. He curses and bights on his lip, drawing more blood and the fever catches through his mind. It’s similar to the one he had yesterday, only stronger, too strong. He falls to the floor and tries to focus on breathing, it calms him but doesn’t stop the pain.

Maybe I’m dying, he thinks, when the pain stars to ricochet down from his head and into his spine and his fingers and [/fuck/] is mouth. He spits out more blood and then collapses into it. His breathing is ragged and thick but at least he is breathing, for now. He collapses, his face pressed against the cool tiles, it’s a small relief but still not enough to cool the fires. And this is it, he thinks, this is where I leave you. He’s strangely okay with it, he never made much of his life anyway, he’s not dying a virgin and the chances are Gerard will find him; covered in his own blood and finally, finally cold.

He lets himself drift into the black. There are no white lights of flash backs or Marley ghosts but one, solitary feeling. He isn’t alone anymore.

-

The first thing Gerard notices, when he finally gets back to the house, is that it’s hot. The central heating is piping through every room in the small house, making the air muggy and warm. It could just be the contrast to the October chill outside but Gerard swears it isn’t. The air inside the house [/is/] different; it’s a little too sweet, sickly.

The whole house felt wrong.

“Frankie?” He calls, loosening his collar, his cheeks already pink and flushed.

Only a few moments later and Frank’s thumping down the stairs with a shit-eating grin on his face. He’s changed since Gerard last saw him that morning and he’s even combed his hair. Gerard thinks he might have shaved his chin and neck, too. He looks clean for a change, he looks really good. The silent prayer in Gerard’s head is the same as ever, rehearsed and begging.