D_M Prompt: Round 4
(( Serious DDS2 spoilage behind the cut. ))
It's difficult to walk. Not simply because of the fragility of David's feet, but the pain that shifts between dull throbbing and acute stings. His bare feet look hideous; his toes have more or less become porous stone -- similar to pumice -- and there's a ring of angry, infected red where flesh abuts stone.
David hates to look at his feet, and for the most part, he doesn't have to. His hands are in a similar state, and he's unable to remove his shoes and dressings without assistance. There's so much he can't do now that his fingers are petrified.
He remembers when he was finally forced to give up his research. His hands shook too much from neural deterioration, and the delicate lab work demanded more dexterity than he could manage with his handicap.
Not to mention, the government was cracking down on mandatory quarantine to ease the minds of the panicking public. With his colleagues' help, David managed to pass under their radar for several weeks, and at least provide his ideas and input as another experienced epidemiologist. Eventually, though, the symptoms were too obvious; most notably, his hobbling walk and shaking hands. He was forced to enter a treatment and quarantine facility.
This is where he is today, as he was yesterday, and the day before for a solid two weeks. Despite his affliction, he insists on doing what work he can -- compiling case studies on fellow patients and himself, gathering data for his colleagues. Jenna visits nearly every day -- be it for ten minutes, or three hours -- to discuss research, life . . . anything that comes to mind.
"It's the sun, David." Jenna sits on the couch in the lounge. David always makes sure to meet her there, even if he has to lean on one of the nurses to get there in the first place. He doesn't like the idea of Jenna seeing him bedridden.
David eyes the squares of yellow, afternoon sunlight from the high windows spreading across the floor, reflecting off of his glasses. He can't bring himself to find a threat there. Maybe because he doesn't want to; how does one fight the very thing that gives life to the earth? A long silence falls over the two, as he mulls this over.
"Not the answer I was hoping for, but I guess that would explain why we haven't found any organic vectors. Not to mention the distribution and nature of the infection."
Jenna looks across the lounge. She watches the immobilized patients wheeled by. They can't operate the hand-powered chairs themselves. "There's no need for a quarantine anymore, nor was there ever." Her hand tenses on the arm of the couch, and her eyebrows knit in irritation. "The syndrome was never communicable, and we had evidence to prove it all along . . ."
"The quarantine is less for safety, and more for peace of mind. You know that."
She nods, then falls silent. "You should come home. The sun reaches here just like it does everywhere."
"I'd like that . . . but I think I should stay. They can help me here, and I can help them. Besides, there's a lot I can't do by myself, and I don't want to burden you." He looks down at his hands. Even if they did find a way to stop the petrification, he would be handicapped for life. He pushes this to the back of his mind, and gives Jenna a warm smile. "It's not so bad here. Lots of good people around."
She seems impervious to the grin, and just leans her head on his shoulder. "I hate how you do that."
He rests his head against hers. "What?"
She sighs. "Act so cheerful when everything's going to hell."
He shrugs ever so slightly. "So long as people are good to each other, it really doesn't matter, does it? I'm happy so long as I know I'm doing something to help."
"I don't see how you can feel that way when people are acting like...like imbeciles. Maybe they don't deserve..."
"They're just afraid, Jenna."
----------
From the corner of his eye, David watches the building burn. He can't quite decide how much time has elapsed since the explosion. He remembers stumbling around half-deaf, blinded by smoke, until he was found by the emergency response crew and removed from the spreading inferno of the collapsing building.
Fire. Memories of camp fires, the stale smell of moldy tents, long car trips, family traditions, his mother, his father -- they all flash by in the perfect clarity of delirium. He thinks that maybe all of his memories are spilling from his head, just as the blood oozes from the shrapnel wound in his abdomen, to soak into the half-petrified lawn outside the isolation ward.
Now, his memories move through a procession of Jenna: Jenna tapping her pen on the tabletop while she reads a book, Jenna blowing the steam from a hot mug of coffee, Jenna watching the rain drip down the outside of a car window, Jenna humming a melody to herself while she irons a dress shirt. All those seemingly mundane, and forgotten moments suddenly come bubbling to his consciousness. Those were the things he loved about her the most -- those moments when she seemed to find peace.
And now, Jenna is kneeling next to him, crying -- a stark contrast to those serene moments.
He hums that melody -- the one she used to sing, but his throat is still thick and irritated by the smoke. His voice cracks, and he can only manage a few notes. He was never much of a singer, anyway.
He turns to face her, remembering that underlying enmity. "Jenna...You mustn't hate them..."
"Don't leave me! Please don't, David." He can barely feel her tugging on his wrist.
"I know you'll...find the cure... my...angel..."
It's difficult to walk. Not simply because of the fragility of David's feet, but the pain that shifts between dull throbbing and acute stings. His bare feet look hideous; his toes have more or less become porous stone -- similar to pumice -- and there's a ring of angry, infected red where flesh abuts stone.
David hates to look at his feet, and for the most part, he doesn't have to. His hands are in a similar state, and he's unable to remove his shoes and dressings without assistance. There's so much he can't do now that his fingers are petrified.
He remembers when he was finally forced to give up his research. His hands shook too much from neural deterioration, and the delicate lab work demanded more dexterity than he could manage with his handicap.
Not to mention, the government was cracking down on mandatory quarantine to ease the minds of the panicking public. With his colleagues' help, David managed to pass under their radar for several weeks, and at least provide his ideas and input as another experienced epidemiologist. Eventually, though, the symptoms were too obvious; most notably, his hobbling walk and shaking hands. He was forced to enter a treatment and quarantine facility.
This is where he is today, as he was yesterday, and the day before for a solid two weeks. Despite his affliction, he insists on doing what work he can -- compiling case studies on fellow patients and himself, gathering data for his colleagues. Jenna visits nearly every day -- be it for ten minutes, or three hours -- to discuss research, life . . . anything that comes to mind.
"It's the sun, David." Jenna sits on the couch in the lounge. David always makes sure to meet her there, even if he has to lean on one of the nurses to get there in the first place. He doesn't like the idea of Jenna seeing him bedridden.
David eyes the squares of yellow, afternoon sunlight from the high windows spreading across the floor, reflecting off of his glasses. He can't bring himself to find a threat there. Maybe because he doesn't want to; how does one fight the very thing that gives life to the earth? A long silence falls over the two, as he mulls this over.
"Not the answer I was hoping for, but I guess that would explain why we haven't found any organic vectors. Not to mention the distribution and nature of the infection."
Jenna looks across the lounge. She watches the immobilized patients wheeled by. They can't operate the hand-powered chairs themselves. "There's no need for a quarantine anymore, nor was there ever." Her hand tenses on the arm of the couch, and her eyebrows knit in irritation. "The syndrome was never communicable, and we had evidence to prove it all along . . ."
"The quarantine is less for safety, and more for peace of mind. You know that."
She nods, then falls silent. "You should come home. The sun reaches here just like it does everywhere."
"I'd like that . . . but I think I should stay. They can help me here, and I can help them. Besides, there's a lot I can't do by myself, and I don't want to burden you." He looks down at his hands. Even if they did find a way to stop the petrification, he would be handicapped for life. He pushes this to the back of his mind, and gives Jenna a warm smile. "It's not so bad here. Lots of good people around."
She seems impervious to the grin, and just leans her head on his shoulder. "I hate how you do that."
He rests his head against hers. "What?"
She sighs. "Act so cheerful when everything's going to hell."
He shrugs ever so slightly. "So long as people are good to each other, it really doesn't matter, does it? I'm happy so long as I know I'm doing something to help."
"I don't see how you can feel that way when people are acting like...like imbeciles. Maybe they don't deserve..."
"They're just afraid, Jenna."
----------
From the corner of his eye, David watches the building burn. He can't quite decide how much time has elapsed since the explosion. He remembers stumbling around half-deaf, blinded by smoke, until he was found by the emergency response crew and removed from the spreading inferno of the collapsing building.
Fire. Memories of camp fires, the stale smell of moldy tents, long car trips, family traditions, his mother, his father -- they all flash by in the perfect clarity of delirium. He thinks that maybe all of his memories are spilling from his head, just as the blood oozes from the shrapnel wound in his abdomen, to soak into the half-petrified lawn outside the isolation ward.
Now, his memories move through a procession of Jenna: Jenna tapping her pen on the tabletop while she reads a book, Jenna blowing the steam from a hot mug of coffee, Jenna watching the rain drip down the outside of a car window, Jenna humming a melody to herself while she irons a dress shirt. All those seemingly mundane, and forgotten moments suddenly come bubbling to his consciousness. Those were the things he loved about her the most -- those moments when she seemed to find peace.
And now, Jenna is kneeling next to him, crying -- a stark contrast to those serene moments.
He hums that melody -- the one she used to sing, but his throat is still thick and irritated by the smoke. His voice cracks, and he can only manage a few notes. He was never much of a singer, anyway.
He turns to face her, remembering that underlying enmity. "Jenna...You mustn't hate them..."
"Don't leave me! Please don't, David." He can barely feel her tugging on his wrist.
"I know you'll...find the cure... my...angel..."