The virus took the poor boys breath first, and raised his temperature.
His elder sister was terrified for him and hadn't moved for the month he'd suffered.
Even the heat from the candle by his tucked tightly bed poured beads of stinging sweat on his forehead.
It began with the yellowing rash of both arms, and soon his neck had caught fire with an itch too.
The coarse towel bedding was sanding his delicate skin down as he grappled sideways for each breath.
The virus was now becoming his legs. His chest was dancing to the arrythmic beat of the fever, and soon funny feverish ideas had made their way to his head.
His curled claws followed the itch up his neck, as the virus escaped like a curl in a carpet.
Soon the virus had guards at all posts in his body. His chest decelerated.
A calm cleansed the room.
The boy sat up after two months of disability, missing his slippers as he left the bed.
The first thing his sister felt was the young boys razor sharp and unforgiving gaze.
Then a forced kiss, hard and violent on the forehead, more gum than lips.
The boy was healthy again.
The sister lay convulsing, her last sight was of her brother beast kissing their mother, grinning wildly, with eyes like barrels of an old and wise shotgun.
The boy had the virus, now the virus had the boy.
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