There is an illness in my house. The upstairs is closed to me, taken completely by the disease. A grim silence hangs the air, broken sporadically and suddenly by unholy wails or the screaming of children. Darkness creeps down the stairs like a fog, laying siege to the line I’ve sworn to defend.
The Thing that was once my girlfriend reaches its trembling hand from beneath a burrow of blankets to take what meager tea and ice water offerings I can muster, but I don’t dare linger. I spent last night on the couch, huddled against the cold, praying that I wouldn’t show… signs, while begging the Almighty to let me see another dawn.
In other words, Bond is delayed.
If only there was genetic research that could eliminate disease…