Favipiravir (T-705) is written across the packet in big green letters. I am confused for a moment is this a new make of morphine? My disappointment is felt deeply when I read the smaller writing which tells me the syringes are a rabies antiviral. My arms drop uncontrollably back down into my lap, taking the pack with it. There will be no imminent relief from the agony, no feeling of euphoria as my body soaks up the morphine, just more suffering in this dark hole.
The disappointment nearly brings me to tears. I had convinced myself that relief was on the way. I fight the tears away, chastising myself for letting my exhaustion let my mind run away with itself. A memory then presents itself, of somebody injecting the wounds in my face and the pain of the sharp needle puncturing the wounds returns, if only in my mind. Have the injections stopped me turning completely into a Rabid yet or have they delayed the onset? Is it still to come? Is that what I am going through now?
I should have turned by now. I have no idea how long I have been here since I was scratched and infected. But I know it is long enough that I should have turned. From the reports I remember, the turning process can vary from almost instant to a few minutes, ten or fifteen at the most. So why haven’t I turned fully? Is it the injection I was given… it can’t be that simple, and if it were, they would be injecting everyone at risk?
In the movies, there always seems to be somebody who is immune to a viral outbreak, and maybe that’s me? I would laugh at myself if it weren’t so painful. This isn’t the fucking movies, dickhead, I tell myself.
Something is fighting the virus inside of me, I am sure of that. And if there is one thing I have learnt in my life, it’s that while you’re still fighting, there is a chance and that chance could be to see my children again.
My fingers fumble the packet of syringes open, there are still four inside. Fishing one out, I see that the plunger is up and ready to go. For a second, I debate reading the instructions, but I haven’t the energy and decide to just go for it before I change my mind.
The stiff top pops off the syringe, exposing the long needle. I take a breath and start the painful process of raising my arm up. I’m going to inject myself in my cheek with the wounds again, that’s where it was done before and must be the most effective place for the serum to go in. Am I becoming immune to the pain? I can feel it penetrating the muscles and bones of my arm and shoulders as my arm moves, but it doesn’t have the same horrific effect. Or is my mind being taken away from it by the thought of the impending injection?
As the syringe appears before my eyes, level with my contaminated cheek, I turn the needle to point at the wound. My index and middle finger hold the syringe whilst my thumb moves to the top of the plunger, ready to push the antiviral serum out. I can’t see the wound so I’m going to be shooting blind, I take a moment to aim as best I can. My tongue unconsciously curls out of the way as I jab the syringe into my cheek, my thumb ready to push. I barely feel anything until the needle pierces my inner cheek and sticks into my top gum above a tooth, where it is stopped by hitting something hard, either bone or the root of the tooth. Agony rushes across the gum and into my eye which immediately fills with water. I pull the syringe out as quickly as it went in.
I jab it straight back in, swearing to myself. This time, I go easier and the needle stays within the flesh of my cheek. My thumb and fingers push together, pushing the fluid out and into the wound. My thumb falters, almost coming to a stop as the fluid goes into my cheek, lighting it in burning, searing agony that spreads across the whole side of my face. The fire burns into my eye that now overflows with water, which does nothing to extinguish the flame. My thumb regroups and pushes until the syringe is spent. As my hand falls away the fire has spread to my brain, threatening to melt its soft delicate tissue to dust. The empty vicious syringe dangles down from my cheek, wobbling but refusing to let go.
Deliriously insane as my brain melts, a picture of Josh, Emily, Catherine and Stacey together, on some non-existent beach, with the sea lapping at their feet is before my eyes. I have to join them. I have to find them.
I grab the box of syringes, my whole being fixated on killing the bloody, fucking depraved virus in my body, trying to take my family from me. Syringes scatter, falling and skidding across the floor as the box rips open. One tumbles against my thigh, and it bounces but doesn’t drop to the floor. It stays precariously balanced there. I grab it and in one swift motion pull the top off and plunge it into my belly. As my thumb pushes the plunger down, the fire spreads to my stomach.
