[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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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?