“Your nose is bleeding,” she told me. I felt a stream of blood drip off of my upper lip. I looked down at the splatters it made on the floor and noticed my wrists and hands. My wrists had splotches of yellow on them and my hands were a dull gray, like they had been dusty and could have easily fallen off. I tilted my head back and stepped closer to the door, expecting my mom to open it, but she backed away instead, grabbing our wooden door. Her body language told me she was going to close it and her eyes told me she only kind of regretted it. “Mom,” I begged her.
“You’re sick,” she said. “I can’t let you in here,” and she slammed the door. I could see my dad in the living room, sitting on the couch, his head slouched. I stepped back, feeling woozy. My nose kept bleeding. I ran over to one of my mom’s potted plants and threw up. Tears streamed down my face. How could my mom throw me out? She was never the warmest person, but I was still shocked. I tried walking down the steps to my porch, I had to get away from there, but I tripped and fell, knocking myself unconscious in a pool of my own blood and vomit.
There were still chunks of vomit in my hair when I awoke. Chinese food had been a mistake. I had tubes in my nose, but right away I knew I wasn’t in a normal hospital. The air smelled wet and dank, the walls were a funky gray color, and I was on the floor. I sat up, my back aching, and took a look around. There were a few machines and monitors hooked up behind me, as well as everyone else, and I had strange wires attached all over me. There were other people lying on the floor too as well as some lying on broken cots. Some were turned on their sides and others were moaning. A man was staring at me from across the room. He looked like he hadn’t bathed in a while. The lighting in the room was awkward and inconsistent. A woman lying next to me sat up.
“I didn’t think you’d wake up,” she cackled. “Most of them don’t.” She had a small butterfly-shaped broach pinned to her robe. I felt a brush of cool air beside me and looked to find the man from across the room now sitting next to me. “Do you know where you are?” he asked. I shook my head and he laughed. “Fresh meat,” he breathed. The woman hissed out a laugh. “Let her be. From the looks of it, she’s going to be in here a while.” “From the looks of what?” I asked and she pointed at me. I looked down at my hands and then up my arms. My skin was still a yellowish gray. I had large blisters on my forearms and legs. “I think your hair is falling out too,” the man said. “It’s evolving,” the woman acknowledged.
A tall man in a hazmat walked up to us, and they scattered. He yanked me up by my arm and stabbed a needle in me. A red, hot heat flushed through my upper arm and when he yanked away, my arm cramped. He walked away without saying a word and the man and woman scampered back over. The man came up to me and grabbed my hair, gently though, and observed it. The woman sniffed me like she was a wild animal. “How long do you think she will be sick, Frank?” the woman asked.
The man curved his finger on his chin. “It’s hard to say,” he said. “How long have you had symptoms?” I blew off his question, and he and the woman returned to their own business, snickering. At that point, I had no idea how long I had been in that place, but I knew I hadn’t started showing symptoms until after Ryan’s funeral. They hit me like a brick wall. After what had happened to Ryan, I knew I had about a week.