The Sickness slipped into a house silently one day, simply because it was bored and had nothing better to do than to cause some chaos. No one saw it as it slithered through the rooms, sticking to the walls and falling into step with people's shadows as they aimlessly padded from room to room, oblivious to the malady that lurked just under their noses, but absorbed in the thoughts of imperfection it filled their heads with.
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Sydney Morgan, a single woman of 30 or so with a short and stylish bob hairstyle and an amazingly proportioned body, was dying. At least she hoped so.
Sydney had been sitting up in her bed for the better part of three weeks with a blanket tucked around her thinning frame, staring at the small clock on her nightstand. It had stopped precisely at 4:52 a.m. on the morning of December 15, 2009. So had the clock on her DVD player, her watch, and the clock on the wall next to her closet.
She coughed once, blood spattering the blanket and dripping down her chin. Shakily, she raised her hand to wipe it away, and was horrified to see that the skin to which she had so religiously applied moisturizer and sunscreen to avoid age spots had turned black with rot.
With her other equally blackened hand, she rubbed the skin on her palm, gasping when it came off in a thin, papery sheet between her fingers. Distressed, Sydney threw the dead skin to the floor and scrubbed her hands together furiously, black flakes peeling off of her fingers, palms, the backs of her hands, and settling in her lap on the blanket like a fine dust.
Sydney realized suddenly that her hands hurt. She immediately stopped wringing them together and let them fall limply to her sides. Now that she thought about it, her whole body hurt. It burned like it was on fire. And it itched too.
Tentatively, she scraped her nails against her cheek, but felt no relief from the stinging itch that festered under her skin. She scratched harder, digging her nails into her flesh, and still felt nothing.
Sydney stood slowly, one hand still scratching at her face, the other securing the blanket around her shoulders as she unsteadily made the three steps it took to get to her vanity table, above which hung a large, oval mirror in a wrought iron frame. It was to the mirror she looked now.
With an inhale of horror, she examined her face. Once, fair and freckled, her skin was black and gone altogether in some places, revealing the white of her stunningly high and perfectly shaped cheekbones. She flattened her palm to the side of her face, and turned this way and that, her once blue, now cloudy gray, eyes following her reflection.
Her hair hung in matted clumps and fell out of her scalp with each twist of her head. Her lips had receded back into her mouth, it seemed, showing her bloody gums and brown teeth even when her mouth was shut firmly. Frankly, she looked very much like a corpse.
With a startled cry of anguish, Sydney flung herself facedown on her bed, aware that the coarse material of her comforter was slowly flaying the skin from her face as she writhed about.
“I was perfect!” she wailed, drooling blood on the sheets. She beat her fists weakly on the mattress on either side of her and tried with all her might to cry, but found that she couldn’t.
“You were perfect before. Now look at you, poor soul,” came a harsh and grating whisper from above Sydney. She felt a light pressure of someone stroking what remained of her lustrous brown hair and her head snapped up mechanically.
“No, I wasn’t perfect,” she argued with the whisper, which just chuckled throatily and flouted her foolishness.
“And aren’t you an ugly thing now?” it asked.
Sydney thought about it for a moment. “No,” she said slowly and uncertainly. “I’m beautiful still…”
She stood once more and wobbled to her vanity table, this time looking at the small picture tucked into the corner of her mirror where she could look at it everyday, as she was getting ready for work. The picture showed a very different Sydney Morgan with chubby cheeks and a toothy grin under a too-big nose, with her ex-fiancé Paul. Both were elegantly dressed in black, their arms linked together, standing with their backs to a pink sunset over the ocean on the deck of the cruise ship where they had met and fallen in love.
Sydney now ripped the picture from its hold in the mirror and held it with two rotting hands before her face. Slowly, tenderly, she brought the photo up to her mouth and kissed Paul’s smiling face as best as she could without lips, a smear of blood marring his visage as she pulled away and replaced the picture.
“I’m going to be perfect for you, no matter what it takes,” she said as she sat down at her vanity, the blanket slipping from her shoulders to expose a heavily bloodstained paper hospital gown.
With sure fingers, Sydney picked up her mascara and unscrewed the cap, placing the brush against her eye and swiping the air where her eyelashes would be if she still had any, humming quietly to herself.
With a sly grin of accomplishment, The Sickness left Sydney Morgan alone to die.
Sydney had been sitting up in her bed for the better part of three weeks with a blanket tucked around her thinning frame, staring at the small clock on her nightstand. It had stopped precisely at 4:52 a.m. on the morning of December 15, 2009. So had the clock on her DVD player, her watch, and the clock on the wall next to her closet.
She coughed once, blood spattering the blanket and dripping down her chin. Shakily, she raised her hand to wipe it away, and was horrified to see that the skin to which she had so religiously applied moisturizer and sunscreen to avoid age spots had turned black with rot.
With her other equally blackened hand, she rubbed the skin on her palm, gasping when it came off in a thin, papery sheet between her fingers. Distressed, Sydney threw the dead skin to the floor and scrubbed her hands together furiously, black flakes peeling off of her fingers, palms, the backs of her hands, and settling in her lap on the blanket like a fine dust.
Sydney realized suddenly that her hands hurt. She immediately stopped wringing them together and let them fall limply to her sides. Now that she thought about it, her whole body hurt. It burned like it was on fire. And it itched too.
Tentatively, she scraped her nails against her cheek, but felt no relief from the stinging itch that festered under her skin. She scratched harder, digging her nails into her flesh, and still felt nothing.
Sydney stood slowly, one hand still scratching at her face, the other securing the blanket around her shoulders as she unsteadily made the three steps it took to get to her vanity table, above which hung a large, oval mirror in a wrought iron frame. It was to the mirror she looked now.
With an inhale of horror, she examined her face. Once, fair and freckled, her skin was black and gone altogether in some places, revealing the white of her stunningly high and perfectly shaped cheekbones. She flattened her palm to the side of her face, and turned this way and that, her once blue, now cloudy gray, eyes following her reflection.
Her hair hung in matted clumps and fell out of her scalp with each twist of her head. Her lips had receded back into her mouth, it seemed, showing her bloody gums and brown teeth even when her mouth was shut firmly. Frankly, she looked very much like a corpse.
With a startled cry of anguish, Sydney flung herself facedown on her bed, aware that the coarse material of her comforter was slowly flaying the skin from her face as she writhed about.
“I was perfect!” she wailed, drooling blood on the sheets. She beat her fists weakly on the mattress on either side of her and tried with all her might to cry, but found that she couldn’t.
“You were perfect before. Now look at you, poor soul,” came a harsh and grating whisper from above Sydney. She felt a light pressure of someone stroking what remained of her lustrous brown hair and her head snapped up mechanically.
“No, I wasn’t perfect,” she argued with the whisper, which just chuckled throatily and flouted her foolishness.
“And aren’t you an ugly thing now?” it asked.
Sydney thought about it for a moment. “No,” she said slowly and uncertainly. “I’m beautiful still…”
She stood once more and wobbled to her vanity table, this time looking at the small picture tucked into the corner of her mirror where she could look at it everyday, as she was getting ready for work. The picture showed a very different Sydney Morgan with chubby cheeks and a toothy grin under a too-big nose, with her ex-fiancé Paul. Both were elegantly dressed in black, their arms linked together, standing with their backs to a pink sunset over the ocean on the deck of the cruise ship where they had met and fallen in love.
Sydney now ripped the picture from its hold in the mirror and held it with two rotting hands before her face. Slowly, tenderly, she brought the photo up to her mouth and kissed Paul’s smiling face as best as she could without lips, a smear of blood marring his visage as she pulled away and replaced the picture.
“I’m going to be perfect for you, no matter what it takes,” she said as she sat down at her vanity, the blanket slipping from her shoulders to expose a heavily bloodstained paper hospital gown.
With sure fingers, Sydney picked up her mascara and unscrewed the cap, placing the brush against her eye and swiping the air where her eyelashes would be if she still had any, humming quietly to herself.
With a sly grin of accomplishment, The Sickness left Sydney Morgan alone to die.
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