"They're saying it's deadly, you know."

   "Uh-huh." He replied unenthusiastically, his eyes half-lidded in boredom as the two boys waited for the car to pass.

   "Henry, I'm serious."

   "Right, of course, my mistake, you're serious! And I'm a walking corpse," Henry muttered with a chuckle of amusement, scratching at his jawline as his friend tried to convince him to pay attention.

   "Really?" He asked, unamused by Henry's quip, watching the car roll by slowly, as if trying to make the two wait in agony. "You'll be sorry when you get infected, Hank."

   "One, I don't get sick." The blonde pointed out, crossing the road, his feet aligned with the white stripes across the pavement as he stepped. "Two, you know I hate that stupid nickname. Quit it." He ordered, walking without looking back to see if his friend followed.

   "You got sick on picture day." He pointed out.

   "I skipped picture day." Henry corrected, much to his friend's displeasure, but he dropped the subject. He knew why Henry didn't want to believe the sickness was real. So he left it alone. For his sake. They walked the rest of the way in a loud silence, their footpace matching step for step. Henry's untied shoes next to his muddy ones. They neared the corner of the sidewalk, the part where Henry would make his turn and his friend would walk straight, going their separate ways until tomorrow.

   "Don't be a stranger, Wormwood," Henry uttered, wrapping his lanky arm around his friend's shoulders in a weak attempt for a hug.

   "You too, Hank." He said, trying to joke with his friend, but no laugh came from him. The two boys parted ways, the footsteps decreasing in volume until they were each out of the earshot of the other.

   Henry walked in dead silence, his eyebrows furrowed. As soon as his friend was out of sight, he began to jog his way home. You have nothing to worry about, he told himself, you'll come home out of breath, and mutter will be fine. She'll tell you how good she feels, and she'll make dinner. She won't be sick anymore, and she can make us Black Forest Cake to celebrate. You can help her while she does. Papa will tell you about work, and Jamie can talk about his day at kindergarten. He kept thinking those reassuring thoughts, but his feet only sped up. The worry and dread refused to go to his head, they just shot down into the only thing that would listen. His legs.

   His jogging turned into a sprint, and that to a run, his breath heavy as his feet pounded against the ground, his heart ramming against his rib cage harshly with each step he took, fists clenched tightly as his arms swung in pendulum-like motions in tandem with his legs. His eyes were narrow, and his cheeks flushed from the sweat that came off of him.

   When his house finally came into view after what seemed like ages, he quickly darted to the door. His hand flew into his pocket, breath coming out in heavy puffs as his hands shook. I hate you, Wormwood, he thought to himself as he yanked his key out, jamming it into the keyhole harshly, Verdammt, dass du mir diese Angst eingeflößt hast. He turned the key urgently, yanking the door open with reckless abandon. He slammed it shut, the sound shaking the walls of the house.

   Henry practically flew into the living room, his sweaty hands clinging to either side of the doorframe, panting as his eyes darted around the room in search of his father. It didn't take long to find him passed out on the couch, face first in the pillow, his leg hanging off the sofa in a dreamful type of peace.

   The teen sighed, his hands sliding down from the doorframe, propping himself against it tiredly, legs aching with a pain that came and went. Like a heartbeat. A slow, dying heartbeat. A pulse that came quickly, but took ages to come to a halt. His eyes remained fixated on his father, about to try to wake him, before the television let out a loud screech.

   His head snapped up to the screen with a sudden jolt, his brow furrowing as he saw the news anchor's face pop up screen. That sickeningly calm face of hers as she described what was going on in the world with no sympathy behind that smooth, honey-like voice of hers. 

   "To whom it may concern--" She started off slowly, and for a minute she may have even looked like she cared, "-- Deathbell Anthropophagite appears to be gradually dying off in the medical field. But that does not rule out the possibility of infection. I have been instructed to broadcast the symptoms and procedures in the chance that some of you out there might be stressing about your loved ones."

   Those words sent a spike of worry through his head, and he turned away from the screen, creeping through the hallway with a pace that matched a snail's.

   "The symptoms include extreme hunger, stomach aches,"

   Henry inched towards the kitchen with extreme lethargy, as if trying to hold off the inevitable fate ahead that he just knew was coming. The hallway seemed much longer now, as if he was two again, toddling down to the kitchen on his two, stubby legs to get a snack from Mutter.

   "Coughing, heaving and/or vomiting up food that isn't classified as meat, or possibly blood,"

   But now he was fourteen, tall and mature, his legs now long and firm, but still moving as if he were a toddler. His fingers curled around the doorframe, the tips going cold when they entered the room as if they were passing through an invisible force between reality and nightmares.

   "Omophagious tendencies with said meat, and body temperatures below 24-26 degrees Celsius,"

   "Mama?" Henry called out hesitantly, his head craning into the kitchen, his brow furrowed as he turned into the dark room. But as soon as he stepped in, his foot skidded against a liquid substance on the floor, forcing him to grip the doorframe for support. He squinted, trying to force his eyes to adjust to the dim room uselessly as if endeavouring to avoid turning on the light at the moment.

   He began to hear this... moist chewing. The unpleasant sound reached his ears a little too late. His face scrunched up in disgust, and he felt the urge to retch up the contents of his stomach just because of the sound. He could even feel it crawling up his throat, but he shoved it back down with a thick gulp, mustering the small amount of energy it took to flick on the light with his hand, which had nearly gone numb with fear.

   His mother was curled up a good two feet in front of him, facing away, her back heaving up and down with each breath she took, her silky blonde hair now stained red at the tips, with an occasional vermillion-coloured chunk of flesh or two. Her grey nightgown had been ruined in the deep red liquid, the stain beginning at her collar and slowly getting less and less thick as it went down her torso, but starting up again right near her waist. Chunks of red sat in her lap as she sat, hunched up with such a curl in her back that you could see each bump of her spine through the fabric. The blood poured from her mouth, dripping down her soft jawline as her tongue tried to lap away at the liquid, like a child licking their plate after a delicious meal. The tips of her pale fingers had pieces of flesh clinging to them, even a bit got stuck under her nails. Henry immediately averted his gaze from the sight to behold, trying to hold the upchuck inside his throat, but looking down was a mistake.

   The substance he had slipped on previously was a pool of deep red blood, fresh and pungent as the aroma hit his nose. His face goes pale as his head jerks to the right, aiming away from the small reservoir of blood on the floor, but too late to stop him from regurgitating up his lunch from school. When the vomit stopped, it didn't take long for him to gag again, heaving for the second time as the ejecta from the act formed a small pile by the puddle of blood. 

   He gripped the hem of his shirt, wiping his mouth with the rough cloth, as he tried to convince himself that this was just another sick spell of hers. She just spewed up some blood again. Dad was too tired to notice. Yeah. It's not guts, it's just--

   His thoughts were soon interrupted when he glanced up to see his mother staring right at him.

   Her eyes looked like they had been sucked right into the sockets, the blue irises now beady and sharp as she stared at her son. The blood blotched her pale skin, bits of pink and red stuck in the cracks of her crooked teeth. Sweat gathered on her forehead as if she had just run a marathon, but he could tell her body was ice cold just by looking the way she trembled.

   His first instinct was to approach her, help her clean up, and take her to bed as he had done when she vomited before. In fact, he took a step forward, just shy of the blood puddle, to do just that. His chapped lips parted, ready to ease her into this.

   That's when he saw it.

   Jamie's hand was lying limp in front of her, his small fingers lifeless and grey. He almost heaved again at the sight of his little brother's middle and index finger missing, leaving bloody nubs where his fingers should be, looking as if they had been bitten clean off. He was almost glad that the rest of his body was hidden behind her.

    Henry's eyes bugged out, his mouth hanging agape at his mother, the taste of vomit stuck in his dry mouth. He dared not breathe through his nose, for he would smell the fetid odour of the flesh. His mother glared back at her son, no words coming out of her mouth, but blood seeped out from the cracks of her teeth, pouring down to drench her bottom lip.

   Henry was too panicked to cry, and too overwhelmed to scream. He just gaped at her, his hand coming up to cover his mouth. His nails dug into the skin of his cheek, blinking rapidly as his throat burned as an aftermath of the retching.

   Finally, she turned around and pushed her weight up onto her lanky legs. When she did, half-chewed chunks of what used to be Jamie's large intestine fell out of her lap, plopping down onto the stained floor with a moist squelch for each of them. The very sight caused Henry to wince, eyes squeezing shut briefly, as subtle tears formed and dampened his thick eyelashes. A small grimace found itself on his face before his eyes slid open.

   His mother stood directly in front of him, looming over her son maliciously as her bloody hands flew to his shoulders. Her grip was aggressive, and in no way did her body give that motherly, unconditional love that it should have. But her eyes, oh her eyes. Though pale and shrivelled, showed nothing but compassion and love for her son. Her tongue flicked out and licked the blood away from her lips and chin, staring at her eldest son, her eyes trailing up and down his skinny frame.

   He was a bit slim for his age, but a meal is a meal, no?