She didn’t respond. Maybe she didn’t understand. She just coughed and twitched some more. She couldn’t even close her eyes. She stared up at the ceiling, past him, as though he weren’t there right beside her. As though he were the ghost.

He stayed with her through the nights, trying to stop the shakes. He had no body heat to give, and the heating system wasn’t enough, so he covered her in layer after layer of blankets, trying to force her to sweat out the sick.

She sweat out pounds, but just not the sick.

Helplessly, he watched her grow weaker as time passed, seeing her wither further away with every snap of the lock. She no longer had the energy to stand and greet him when he entered her room; soon after, she didn’t even have the energy to sit up on her mattress.

“Daddy . . . ?” she croaked when he opened the door.

He could hear the strain in her voice when she tried to speak. She coughed every other breath. He only wished she wouldn’t try so hard for him.

“Hello, my sweet. How are you today?”

When he stepped inside, he nearly choked on his horror. He thought she was a cadaver, lying on the mattress like Death was already inside of her (resting so comfortably, too!), nothing moving except for her jaw and the droplets of sweat crawling down her skin.

He could smell the rot.

“Daddy . . . it hurts . . .” she struggled to express. “It hurts so bad. What . . . what is happening to me?”

“You’re fine, Vanilla . . . you are okay. I am here. You are safe,” he answered, his sorrow strangling his voice. For a fleeting moment, he thought about turning around and closing the door, snapping the lock shut once and forever. He knew what would happen if he didn’t. The awful climax of his actions if he didn’t turn around right then. But his chest lurched toward her.

Because he knew he was incapable of leaving her. Even in this incoming eternity.

(Fool.)

He walked to her body and saw how it was nearly dissolving into the puddle around her, immersed in its own perspiration. She was drowning in her own heat.

“Come on, my sweet. Let’s give you a nice bath.”

“O-okay, Daddy.”

He bent over and lifted her off the bed carefully. He didn’t bother to blindfold her. She wouldn’t remember much and he’d be grateful if she did. He carried her down the hallway and to the bath, placing her in the tub and running water over her. She purred for a few seconds when the wet touched her skin, cleansing the top layer of grime, but then grew silent. She didn’t have the energy to react any further. He had to keep her from slipping under.

She lay in the porcelain, head slumped back and mouth agape toward the ceiling, lips curved around a black hole where Death could enter freely. Where Death was already beginning to make a home.