27-12-2021: Day 200
The furious fever began in the early hours – unboxed, uncorked, and unexpected – after the long days partying celebrations of Christmas day had drawn to a drunken curtain call. I woke to a body anchored in a concrete suit, head churned in a liquidiser, and ice-cold chills to the bone marrow. Unable to fathom the source of the fever, I went to ground, retreating under the duvet, hiding from the world beyond the bedroom door.
The fever was a throwback to childhood influenza, when the illness would run on for days, and hallucinatory dreams of dark stormy clouds would imprint on the mind like a black and white Escher infinity print.
So, the baubles fell off the tree early this Christmas. I picked them up, cracked and broken, looking into their glittery reflection, as the fever lapped like an ice-cold tide over the bed.
I peered into one and saw Death with his scythe and the shadow of Covid. I looked into another and saw the ‘Twelve Days of Christmas’ chopped out into twelve sketchy white lines. And I picked up and gazed into another and saw the eye of the fever hurricane reflected in my glassy black pupils.
Then. Lights out. All out.