[A good bit earlier than they usually, wake, to boot.
Erika's dreams go strange places. When she drops out of them at some indeterminate hour of the morning, three things rattle her awareness.
The first is weight and pressure and constriction. The stiff points of her shoulder and her ankle are now indistinct and unbearably heavy, pinning down her leg, her torso, locking movement between them like the claws of a vise. Breathing is hard; her left side is sewn together tight, pressing in, piercing if she wheezes too deeply.
The second thing; a noise on the edge of hearing, high-pitched and insistent. It pulls her out of sleep in long, jagged steps. She realizes that the noise is her own voice, a whine that starts to crest to a sobbing wail when she comes to, coming and going according to the breath on her lungs and according to -
- the third thing, the pain, seething at the surface and boiling over into shocking clarity when she wakes. She's familiar with pain, but not like this; flesh welded to metal and screaming at the contact, all up and down one useless arm and one useless leg and the infection digging roots into the tissues between her organs and around her spine and up the back of her neck. Petrifying, paralyzing, searing.
It hurts so much. It hurts so much. She can't think, and doesn't, scattered into a simple loop: feel, hurt, cry out, gasp for breath, repeat.]
[Even Hajime can't sleep through that. Her cries filter into his dreams, tightening his chest and furrowing his brow as it drags him slowly to wakefulness. He wasn't sure in the dream if it had been his own voice, but now that he's starting to become more aware, it's painfully obvious that it's not just a dream.]
E-Erika?!
[He tries to shift, realizes abruptly that she's heavy, dragging a grunt of confused pain from his lips as he turns his head. His hand comes up to try to hold her shoulder, touch her cheek, something, but there's nothing there. The faintest outline of a hand passes directly through her, doing absolutely no good at all.]
E-Erika, can you breathe? L-let me get you to the clinic, c'mon...
[He tries -- tries -- to wiggle out from beneath her, progress hampered by one (1) missing hand.]
[And then I let this sit for two weeks on writer's block so here's an extremely graceful montage scene transition to a different and less depressing part.
There's no getting to the clinic. There's setting up once more for a day of crisis - with the music the threat was less clear, raving madness and then something, but here the weight of death is tangible.
Erika manages - barely - in the bathroom once early in the day, and avoids having to do it again by not eating. The thought of trying is unappealing. It's probably not possible once the virus progresses. She tells Hajime where her tiny personal stash of pain medication is, takes a dose before her stomach goes, and the rest of the day...
It's still bad.
Being immobile doesn't leave her much to help Hajime with. She talks, mostly. Or coaxes him to. Make some noise, so you know where you are. Can you sing? Have you ever tried? Even kids' rhymes. So on and so forth, into existential terror and back.
And then.
And then the clock ticks over, and people die, but Erika doesn't. She wakes up from a groggy near-sleep, and once again expects Hajime to be gone. Once is hard, and twice is harder.
She doesn't try to call out at first. When she does, she finds that the top of her tongue went copper in her sleep. It hurts - but not the way it did yesterday. It's an aching, pulling pain, instead of a stabbing one. It could mean literally anything.]
...Hajime? [She slurs it out clumsily, not moving her neck, not trying to look around. If he's gone - he's gone. Once more, with a little more clarity in her voice, above a mumble.] Hajime?
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no subject
Erika's dreams go strange places. When she drops out of them at some indeterminate hour of the morning, three things rattle her awareness.
The first is weight and pressure and constriction. The stiff points of her shoulder and her ankle are now indistinct and unbearably heavy, pinning down her leg, her torso, locking movement between them like the claws of a vise. Breathing is hard; her left side is sewn together tight, pressing in, piercing if she wheezes too deeply.
The second thing; a noise on the edge of hearing, high-pitched and insistent. It pulls her out of sleep in long, jagged steps. She realizes that the noise is her own voice, a whine that starts to crest to a sobbing wail when she comes to, coming and going according to the breath on her lungs and according to -
- the third thing, the pain, seething at the surface and boiling over into shocking clarity when she wakes. She's familiar with pain, but not like this; flesh welded to metal and screaming at the contact, all up and down one useless arm and one useless leg and the infection digging roots into the tissues between her organs and around her spine and up the back of her neck. Petrifying, paralyzing, searing.
It hurts so much. It hurts so much. She can't think, and doesn't, scattered into a simple loop: feel, hurt, cry out, gasp for breath, repeat.]
no subject
E-Erika?!
[He tries to shift, realizes abruptly that she's heavy, dragging a grunt of confused pain from his lips as he turns his head. His hand comes up to try to hold her shoulder, touch her cheek, something, but there's nothing there. The faintest outline of a hand passes directly through her, doing absolutely no good at all.]
E-Erika, can you breathe? L-let me get you to the clinic, c'mon...
[He tries -- tries -- to wiggle out from beneath her, progress hampered by one (1) missing hand.]
no subject
There's no getting to the clinic. There's setting up once more for a day of crisis - with the music the threat was less clear, raving madness and then something, but here the weight of death is tangible.
Erika manages - barely - in the bathroom once early in the day, and avoids having to do it again by not eating. The thought of trying is unappealing. It's probably not possible once the virus progresses. She tells Hajime where her tiny personal stash of pain medication is, takes a dose before her stomach goes, and the rest of the day...
It's still bad.
Being immobile doesn't leave her much to help Hajime with. She talks, mostly. Or coaxes him to. Make some noise, so you know where you are. Can you sing? Have you ever tried? Even kids' rhymes. So on and so forth, into existential terror and back.
And then.
And then the clock ticks over, and people die, but Erika doesn't. She wakes up from a groggy near-sleep, and once again expects Hajime to be gone. Once is hard, and twice is harder.
She doesn't try to call out at first. When she does, she finds that the top of her tongue went copper in her sleep. It hurts - but not the way it did yesterday. It's an aching, pulling pain, instead of a stabbing one. It could mean literally anything.]
...Hajime? [She slurs it out clumsily, not moving her neck, not trying to look around. If he's gone - he's gone. Once more, with a little more clarity in her voice, above a mumble.] Hajime?