He thought the warm water dribbling from the shower head would somehow soothe the stomach cramps.  One out of four will die this year, that’s what CNN had said last night.  Last night, he only felt sore—disconnected, even with his lungs congested, his nose filled with mucus, and his head set to explode, thankfully he could only imagine the smell in his bedroom.  By the morning, the vomit was so strong that it still tasted electric in his mouth; the only indication to him of what lingered attacked his eyes instead as they watered from the stench.  By now it must have wafted out to the hall in his little two-bedroom apartment, but there’s no need to worry about them pasting up another quarantine sign, the big red sticker with the bio-hazard symbol still hung from when little Eva was diagnosed three weeks ago.

“My God, that was only three weeks ago.”  He thought.

Now standing in the shower, He found it ironic that he had always complained that the spray of the water was weak and useless.  Now it was nearly impossible to hold himself under it with his skin so red and sensitive, the first hundred needle-shots of water hurt so badly that he sucked air between his teeth, making him queasy.  Grabbing the curtain rod to steady him, eyes squeezed tightly shut, his bowels involuntarily releasing everything inside him in the hopes of pushing whatever horribleness lived inside.  Nothing solid arrived, just the hot stream that joined the water down his legs, escaping into the drain, leaving him absolutely ashamed of himself as he tried to hold himself upright.  He opened his eyes just in time to see the last swirl of Rust colored red chase water down a hole.  It’s all a matter of time—he sighed.  The pain felt justified, a form of penance for his ignorance… For the liberties he took with Eva’s life. 

There was a program in place for all the children who were suspected of contracting OPAK, not medication because there was none.  Just a pill, a shot, and then a deep sleep till the organs shut down, they called it “medication”, it was really euthanasia.  There would be no pain, no suffering.  Just sleep and release.  But he was convinced that Eva was different.  She always got the flu around now, that’s all it must have been, the flu.  When reality set in, she was beginning to face the final stages, the pain must have been unbearable but she remained calm as if somehow, she was only bothered with a small cold.  It was his decision not to “medicate” her; it was his denial that allowed her to lay on her tiny little bed writhing in silence.  Her last 24 hours was a nightmare, pain so severe that she was vaguely aware that he was even in the room.  The whining and moaning was all she could muster as the hour’s drug on and on, sobbing and begging for it to stop until all he wanted to do was escape, run from his little girl with his fists in his ears, knowing that all this was his decision—his fault.  It wasn’t till she started bleeding that he bought the “medication”, by then it was all sold in back alleys and were more than likely, impure.  Much of it was Benzedrine pills and rubbing alcohol in syringes, the results was a torpor state that only silenced the afflicted, but they felt everything till the end.  By then it didn’t matter, her body wasn’t digesting or circulating in any way possible.  She was beyond any kind of peace the “medication” could deliver.  Twice he considered carrying her to the bathtub and holding her under the water till it was all over, but every time he went to pick her up, the pressure bruised her skin so badly that the skin seeped blood.  Her sheets and pillows were similarly drenched.  One week and two days later, she stopped breathing; he was almost overjoyed, gleeful that it was finally over with.  And then was quickly overcome with revulsion and guilt.