We were young and wild and free,
fightin' in a love we couldn't leave.
It’s been a while since I’ve visited that memory; I still see the blood, I still smell the pus, I still hear them screaming and you have no idea how hard it is to not think about the sound of skin splitting and boils bursting. Most don’t even know that that’s possible, I didn’t until that night. But they all deserved what they got for what they did to those children. I regret nothing. A small smile curves my mouth when I lock eyes with my intended target, a doe that only just realizes she is in danger—I’d appeared to her as an ordinary buck, seemingly come to graze with her and make idle conversation. But she knows. She knows something is amiss.
Her ears swivel forwards, she lifts her head—flags her tail in alarm, but it’s too late. Mucus dribbles out of her nose, and then blood, and the next thing I know she is riddled with fever and convulsing on the ground. Her eyes are rolling into the back of her head, there’s foam coming out of her mouth and I do nothing but watch; watch and listen; she’s gurgling, fighting to breathe. I can barely stand the sight, but I force myself to look on anyways; I know better than to make it stop, she’s suffering now, but she’ll suffer worse if I take it back. Her mind’s been burnt up by the fever. I need to watch, because I need to remind myself to always be careful—to always be in control, because if I don’t this could happen to anyone. This could happen to someone I love.
Which is ironic, because I suddenly realize I can’t shut it off.
The germs spread of their own accord, infecting both plants and animals alike; it kills some, it only inconveniences the others. I can’t control the effects, but I can’t stop them, either; though I do my very best to try and reign them in—it’s making my head hurt. I feel sick myself, I realize with a sniffle and then a cough. I’m tired, I feel cold—nope, hot. I feel hot. Now I’m cold and sweating. It’s pretty fucking terrible, honestly.
With a growl, I leave the dead doe behind and wander deeper into the woods.
I’m thinking if I can stay away from the Meadow, I can contain—oh, fuck my life. I bump right into someone, sneeze in their face. Which, of course, they’re none too happy about and I can’t quite blame them. I might have just inadvertently killed them, after all. I might have killed everyone with just a sneeze.
“You,” I mutter, shifting from deer to hellhound, because being a hellhound makes it easier to intimidate someone into doing your bidding than being a deer does. Go figure.
“You’re coming with me.”
Even on the way down, even on the way down.
