Chapter Text
Player bit their lip, staring blankly down at their own thigh. They were sitting on the floor of the bathroom in some hotel. It was about… four in the morning, if they had to guess, though the time and place was hardly at the forefront of their mind at the moment.
In the middle of their right thigh there was an obvious gash, not deep, not bleeding, just an injury they’d obtained during a scrap with some jerk carrying a pocket knife a few nights ago. They’d made sure to clean it thoroughly when they got it, they’d made sure it wasn’t deep enough to warrant stitches, and honestly, it didn’t even hurt.
No, the reason they were sitting on the bathroom floor at four in the morning staring at their thigh like a deer in headlights wasn’t the wound. It was a tiny cluster of dots just barely visible on their skin a few inches away from it. The dots were small enough that they thought they were bug bites at first, but the skin wasn’t raised in the slightest, and it didn’t itch or hurt. It almost looked like tiny bruises, like someone had lightly poked them with a blunt needle.
How embarrassing that they were shaking with anxiety at something so small. How hypocritical that the rest of their body was littered with arguably more concerning wounds. A little voice in their head pointed out bluntly, prodding at their conscious. Just go to bed already.
The thing was, Player knew about taking care of themself. Counter to what Brad or Calypso would argue, they *were* considerate of their own health, especially when it came to wound care. How could they not be, with how meticulous their papa was? With how often their mother lectured them on it whenever they scraped themself?
They knew about their health and they knew what this could be. Broken blood vessels underneath the skin—it was a tiny, minuscule chance that the dots meant anything at all, but at this point, they were too tired to stop their own brain from tormenting them with a barrage of worries about it.
The most logical explanation was that it was a sign of infection because of the open wound not far from it. The cut didn’t *look* infected, at first glance, but they knew these things could be deceiving. Oh swords, was there supposed to be that much heat coming off of it? They whimpered slightly but didn’t pull their hand back from hovering it over the scrape.
It was a little red around the edges, which could mean it was in its healing stage, but could also mean it was infected. It should have healed by now! They *had* been picking the scabs off of it, now that they thought about it. What if the infection spread to their brain? Were they really going to die because of their own stupid habit?
Breathe. They remembered. Different parts of them warred for control of their lungs for a painfully static moment before they heaved in a shuddering breath. Fuck, who knew what bacteria could have been floating in the air they just inhaled?
…the dots didn’t necessarily mean infection, though. It was entirely possible that it was just a coincidence they were so near the scrape, after all, they knew their papa mentioned they usually showed up on the legs and arms.
Yeah, it might now be an infection of that cut, but what about something else? What about their blood? They tapped their foot rapidly against the cold tiles of the ground. It could be a sign of leukemia.
They didn’t think they could consider that without throwing up. Away with that part.
It might just be an early warning that they were coming down with something, they offered helpfully.
Tuberculosis? Pneumonia? They could die from that. It was probably only a sign of a serious disease like that. Even if they didn’t die from it, they certainly didn’t have the money to get the antibiotics required to give them even a slim chance of survival. Why’d they have to be so reckless and go out so often? Why didn’t they use more hand sanitizer when they were at the food court with Brad yesterday? And how stupid did they have to be to think such small things would cause them to die? Are they really that much of a useless burden that they freak out at the slightest thought of contracting a disease?
It was late. They hadn’t been getting enough sleep for weeks now. Lack of sleep is a huge factor in a weakened immune system! It’s probably too late for them to even fight it off, and there’s nothing they can do about it.
Or—wait. If it’s a problem with their blood, they could take some iron supplements. Eat a steak or something. Though the diseases that they could contract from meat like that made them think twice with a shudder. Was it worth it? Would they die otherwise? It wasn’t like they could easily find that kind of thing around here, anyways.
They stopped tapping their foot. Their leg was starting to ache, very slightly. The same leg with the dots. It could be a coincidence, muscles tended to twinge from lack of sleep, they knew, but what were the chances that it was the same leg? They exhaled through gritted teeth, finding it hard to breathe again. Maybe if they breathed through their teeth the germs couldn’t get into their mouth and bloodstream, he reasoned.
Their mother would be so mad, if she heard the hoops they were jumping through to keep themselves calm right now. They seemed insane. They *felt* insane.
They could feel their blood pumping though their body like thick, vile sludge, bumping clumsily against the walls of their veins. They felt sick thinking about it reaching their precious heart and poisoning it with it’s horrible essence. What a high betrayal, for their very blood to scorn them like this.
They shivered. Sign of fever, sign of infection—was their vision blurry? Did it already reach their eyes?
Maybe if they cut themselves, just a little, and let the bad blood exit their body, they would be clean.
No, terrible idea. They screamed internally. This all happened because of that cut, and you want to add more open wounds to your already fragile, barely-not-a-corpse body? They didn’t have enough fat to protect them if they accidentally went too deep. Their blood was too deeply entangled in their muscle and skin to just remove.
Player stood up on shaky legs—was their right one weaker? Shut up. They pulled up their pants through blurred vision and forced themselves to stumble to their bed. They tried to stare as intensely at reality as they could so they didn’t have to keep visualizing the dots, turning them over in their head like a puzzle to solve, replaying the sensation of running their thumb over them. It didn’t work.