Infected

Mumbling, mumbling, mumbling. No not mumbling. Mad ranting. The quiet, unintelligent rants of someone on the brink of something no one else can grasp. I hear it in the distance, I rise from my small bed and walk down the corridor. At the end of the corridor is a chipped, white door. I know I should go in, I really shouldn't. So of course I must, some things never change. The door opens with a groan of complaint and I peer round the edge. I see a lady with curly black hair. No she isn't a lady, but yet she is. Her skin’s…rotting, I can see the nasal passage ways where her nose should have been, pieces of bone in odd places and the ranting, oh the ranting… My brain just can’t handle it any longer, and my heart certainly can’t.