It is Saturday, so I spend my morning bent over a collection of Bacchylides' poems. The mental exercise confines my mind and thoughts to the space in my head and on my work table. The routine of general and specialised dictionaries, the complex syntax that should somehow make sense, and the cadence of different metres when I compare the Greek and Dutch version aloud, induce a weird trance. It is one of the reasons I like it. When life is endless, time sucks you under till you drown. This keeps me afloat, at least.

Lunch is a silent affair, but the air is lighter than the past week, less dead. I'm draining my cup of tea when a cough crawls up my throat, hooking its claws in my flesh. I choke, can't set down my cup fast enough and hang over the sink as if I am going to vomit. I cough and cough and the itch in my throat is relentless.

And suddenly, I'm breathing fine again, though the memory of the violent coughs has been seared into my body. Jesus Christ. What was that? I haven't been sick since I was a teen. I choked, yes, but that was after the first cough. Or did I imagine that? Was it just my tea going down the wrong way? Nothing more?

It has to be. It is impossible that I actually coughed. Come on, a vampire with a cold? How ridiculous would that be?

I decide to let Bacchylides rest because no luminous ideas will ever blossom up while my mind is this swamp of murky thoughts. Khaled Hosseini, it will be. Reading requires less concentration and it will keep unruly thoughts and feelings in check.

I finish the third chapter without a hitch, but I can't fully focus. Should I take a walk? The wind might blow away the distraction that is currently clouding my head and eyes.

Cough. A giant pair of pliers squeeze my chest and press out more coughs. I can't breathe. Why can't I breathe? I shut my eyes as if it'll make things less scary. This is just a nightmare. I take in gulps of air, but they are never enough and everything is stuck in my throat. Stuck, stuck, stuck. Why can't I breathe?! My head aches, my throat is too narrow, my chest too small.

My coughing fit sputters and dies out, but the aches never leave. This shouldn't happen. Even if I somehow got sick, this is not a common cold. I have seen enough pupils with colds in my classes and this is not it. I don't need my doctor's degree to know this is more severe. What's going on?
I let my head fall in my hands. It is hot. Much too hot. Do I have a fever too?

I stand up, but my legs are dead weight. Unreliable. The leather of my couch is cool. Everything swirls and swirls.

What should I do? I can't think. Pain. Another coughing fit. Nauseous. Panic. Calm down. Just a high fever. You're not dying. But wouldn't that be sweet relief? More coughs to torture me.

Think, Dante. Rational thoughts. Step by step. What should I do? Water? Bed? Can't walk. Nausea. It's like waves.

I squeeze my eyes shut and try to sink deeper into the cushions. Why doesn't the darkness drown out the lightness in my head? I'm lying down, aren't I? I want to sleep. Be nothing, feel nothing. Disappear.

***

The room is bathed in eternal dusk and dust. What happens here, should never see the light of day. I don't mind. Light hurts my eyes and the sun burns my skin. My chains burn as well, but I can't escape those. They hurt less than everything else. They are like hands. Papà didn't know his own strength. He holds me close, even when he is in heaven and I am in hell.

I scream. It doesn't matter. I can barely rasp and nobody listens. Agony never leaves. It is to be kept inside the body, like a treasure. It transcends the mere life of mortals. It is the pain of our Lord Jesus Christ who died at the cross. It is a gift.

Sometimes I think it is. When he's been talking. He who is the hand of God. I am God's creation and I am punished for the sins of Adam and Eve. He doesn't say that, but I know it.

I scream, and fluids gurgle happily in my mouth, my throat. They burn. Everything burns. Always.

***

The room is dark. Everything burns. Muscle cramps from my horrible position. A rectangular shadow lies on the floor. Mybook didn't survive its fall without a dog-ear. I smooth the page out. I turn on the large reading lamp. It casts long shadows. It is three am. I was asleep or passed out for twelve hours! I dreamt, but the images are veiled by a haze of pain.

I sigh. No point trying to remember a dream that is already lost to the abyss of the past.

I get up and then it hits me: I am breathing freely! No pain in my chest, no sore throat, no sense of choking or dying. Nothing. Did I really just fall asleep? Was everything a nightmare? It might very well be. There is no way I was actually sick and I am pretty sure I dreamt about pain. I haven't felt such agony since I was a teenager. Figures it is nothing more than a figment of my imagination. I was probably exhausted, though I wouldn't know why. And despite my many hours of sleep, I am still tired. I'll rest some more then. It is too late to go out and feed anyway, but I can go a day without.