Day 1: It started off as a few red bumps.
Day 2: The next day they were a little bigger, but a little less red.
Day 3: Maybe I should go to the doctor. Nah, no big deal.
Day 4: I called out to work. I just need sleep. Yeah, that’s it.
Day 5: It’s all over. Oh my god. It’s all over. Red and probably dying, I drag myself to the emergency room. My friend, Pamela, drives me. She doesn’t talk to me the entire ride over there. She barely stops at the red light. Zoom-zoom-zoom. I guess it’s pretty serious. Or looks that way. Maybe it’s nothing. An allergic reaction, yeah.
Day 6: Fifteen doctors. Numerous once overs. I’m hooked up and beeping and the bumps are rising. I passed out and I don’t know what day it is. Day 6? Day 9? I don’t know.
Day 10: My mom and dad are in the waiting room. They won’t tell me what the doctor said and I’m in and out of sleep. What’s going on?
Day 15: He’s changing? I think that’s what the doctor said. My parents are crying and I want to comfort them, but they won’t even look at me anymore.
Day 25: It wasn’t my fault. No one knows how it all started, but it ends here. It takes 23 shots to the head and I’m dead. So are some other people. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to do it! Who am I?
I’m a monster. A creature. A thing.
But it’s all over now.
I hope.
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