wednesday’s eyes roll behind half closed lids, the stuffy blanket making her toss and turn, before throwing it off in delirious frustration.

she’s sick. part of her considers death as punishment for such weakness, but she’d probably be too tired to die. the goth has just been completely rocked by this damn fever.

her body is scorching to the touch, a layer of sweat covering her soft, pale skin. her nose is full of cold, explaining the growing pile of discarded, crumpled up tissues by her bed.

she will never, ever, admit this out loud. but she wants you more than anything right now.