A Telegram From the Sickhouse

I've been working from home all week. I work in an open office environment where the slightest hint of a runny nose, the first choked cry of a suppressed cough, or even the menthol scent of a Hall's cough drop will send surrounding colleagues into a fearful frenzy. They'll degrade, guilt, and then shame you into going home. It's an odd, socially enforced sort of quarantine. Unfortunately, it doesn't work well, which is the reason I got sick in the first place. Every motherfucker around me was sniffling and sneezing, hiding in the bathroom and coughing, blowing their noses and hacking green phlegm surreptitiously into the sink. But it doesn't matter, it is Friday. I'll work one more day from my sickhouse, full of crushed tissues and soggy teabags, decapitated Campbell's soup cans and empty bottles of water, where I'll get hopped up on the tussin, anti-inflammatories and expectorants needed to power through the workday.

Earlier in the week I rented a car and booked a cottage up north to travel to with my lady friend. When I realized I was coming down with something, I quickly took matters into my own hands and made sure I got all the rest I needed so that I would be fit to travel with my rainbow-haired maiden. I'd like to avoid infecting her, if possible. I like her.

I've run out of time.

The workday has crept up on me despite a poor night's sleep. I had sleep paralysis, again, for the second time in two weeks, which is unusual for me. Last night's experience was a bit different than normal though, because I'm pretty sure I was asleep when it struck. At the foot of my bed there was the unmistakable shape of a cloaked, slimmly-armed bear. There it stood, faceless and shadowy, paralyzing me with its evil energies. For anyone who hasn't been lucky enough to have the experience, it's as though your soul is growling with all its might at some unseen terror trespassing at the foot of your bed. And the thing, unfazed in the darkness, just stands and stares, taunting, unimpressed by your pathetic threats, like a bear looking down with irritation at a barking Pomeranian. Seething rage bubbled up out of my profoundly helpless state and I felt my vocal chords frothing and straining as my hands turned into fists. I woke up barking an inhuman fuck you as my body - propelled by frustrated hatred - swung forward and up, ready to brawl with my phantom antagonist. But there was nothing there but the memory of a ghostly and imposing visage. Why am I talking like this?

I have to go to work.