An Orthomyxovirus

I raised my head; slow, sweat pouring down my face like a pestilential waterfall. I don’t fear death, but I fear the suffering. I looked at the thermometer, 102.4, a new record. I swing my head in an arch, the environment blurs in slow motion. I am ready for it to be over, no philosophizing, reality has come to roost in a delusion-laced existence of extended discomfort. “Stop being a baby,” she says, “It’s just the flu.” True, but a more miserable time I have yet to have. I look on the world from a point external, fogged by vapid virus enriched blood. I don’t complain, too much effort, but the look of pathetic lifelessness hangs about me like a wrinkled suit. No starch, just let me lie here for a while.