It’s cold.

It feels like a chard of ice banging down on my head. Tonsils are swollen and my head’s closing in. it’s painful. Curled under my covers there is not an inch of energy to move. My muscles have shriveled up, contracted, and are unable to move myself from the bed. Joints are crumbling from the cold. Help, help. Remove this agony from me. I dream of running, but my legs are weak. I feel like dancing, but my head’s already swirling even without me spinning. I wish to read, but I know my eyelids won’t hold up for more than a page. I’m cold. Very cold. Covers are not working. No, I feel warm. The cotton sheets I’m resting on are warm. Wait. Then again, my legs are shivering and my arms refuse to come out from under the covers. I can’t even discern if I’m warm or cold.

My head’s hurting more every second. It feels like spokes piercing the crown of my head, injuring the one organ that keeps me thinking. I can’t take it further. I let out a whimper. A cry. But then again, I don’t want anyone to hear. i don't need pity. I don’t want people going out of the way for me. Are you sure? I ask myself. I’m hurting so bad, reduced even to tears. Are you sure you can take all this?

Someone walks into my room. The person asks me something I can’t hear. I’m too tired to hear. The tears and pain have clouded my mind and blocked all my senses. I’m unable to answer. I vaguely remember my temperature taken and after which was read to me. Took me a long while to understand what those numbers meant. It means you’ve struck on high fever and will be sent to the hospital shortly. I remember myself telling myself. It’s impossible, I don’t want it. I hate the drips, and the pale looking room, that reeks of illness and death. Sure there are glimpses of hope but the whole idea of going to a hospital is pessimistic.

I’m so cold, and in thorough pain. I don’t want to be moved. Not one inch.