I have written poetry my entire life. Words dancing together on paper, creating stories with but a few words; the thought has always brought me a sense of peace. The manuscript was my canvas and the pen was my brush.
There they grow, rushing up the wall.
After I was bitten in the middle of the night, I knew something was wrong. It was the oddest feeling to notice that something was crawling underneath the covers by my feet. I was half asleep and didn’t think much of it, until pain rushed through my leg. I screamed and threw the blanket off of me in a flash, jumping onto the floor and being forced to hop on one leg because the other one felt like hot lava flowed from my ankle up to my thigh.
Sinking while the radiance around me rapidly fades.