He'd been having strange dreams lately, terrible dreams. They felt so real- Dreams where his vision became impaired, dreams where men hurt him as he begged them to stop... Dreams where he was locked away in a dark room, held by a man with a soft voice and foul breath. Vivid nightmares that left him trembling and shaking.
On top of that, Finlay found himself growing even weaker than usual lately, his bones frail, his arms tired. His head pounded so hard that writing became impossible, and though he rarely ate, when he did the food was often rejected, leaving him hunched over the toilet and struggling not to faint.
Today it was the worst it had ever been. He'd not dared to have more than a cup of coffee, and yet here he was, hunched over a toilet in the dome's lower bathroom, spitting up bile as his empty stomach continued to clench and expunge itself. His shoulders were shaking, and he felt a rush of panic as a drop of blood hit the rim of the bowl. Reaching up, he could feel his nose bleeding, and he trembled as he became more and more aware of how dizzy he felt.
What the hell was wrong with him? He couldn't be sick, the dead couldn't get sick, surely...
His head was spinning, his chest tight, and his pulse... His pulse? His pulse that was usually shallow and slow was suddenly loud in his ears. It was steady and strong, too loud in his ears, he thought- Just as his grip on the bowl loosened and he crashed to the floor.