Epilogue - Part VII: Victor Roske
November 11, 2007
The hunger and vomiting continue over the next several nights after you move your scant possessions into Haldor's haven. You end up having to lock Liz in another room, fearing you might attempt to devour her in your hunger. You can hear her mewling piteously as she scratches fruitlessly against the door trying to get back into your arms. Haldor's apparently installed a small sheet of metal to prevent it from doing too much damage, and her little paws make an unpleasant grating sound against the metal.
On the third day you finally can stomach blood again, and you have a brief and cheerful respite before things begin to get worse. Midway through the day, you are wracked with spasms and your eyes begin to water as the next plague bears down upon you.
For the next several weeks you seem as though afflicted with a plague. You feel an overwhelming sense of nausea and yet this time find yourself *unable* to vomit. Your skin cracks, dries and sinks in, and your muscles begin to lock whenever you move. Waking is painful. Being unable to sleep before the next day is painful. You suspect that you are having nightmares, but you can never remember them.
Your unlife becomes a hazy half-waking fever dream. Occasionally, you are brought to lucidity by the feeling of Liz, finally released, licking at the scabbed blood around your eyes. The animal seems nervous around you now, but nevertheless remains steadfast in it's devotion to you. You move your hand to pet her, but find yourself so uncoordinated that you somehow miss.
As some point in time, you feel your body begin to bloat and your belly distend. You don't give it much thought until you swear you can *hear* something writhing within you, like a thousand tiny little chittering voices whispering in your brain.
Seven... eight... ten days into this (You can't remember) a locust crawls it's way up your throat and flies upward toward the ceiling light. You contemplate it briefly before you reach an important decision.
Fuck it. Fuck your eye. Fuck your hand. There are motherfucking bugs living in you.
You are calling Ismail Dzmelihev.
You somehow pry yourself upright and try to trudge outside where you can get descent reception, as you pass Haldor, you think for a moment that his face looks different. You half-wonder if you're beginning to hallucinate.