Airtight

I’ve always been unlucky. I don’t know why. Bad things just always happen to me, I call it the curse of the middle child.

From that childish rant, it should come as no surprise to you that when an outbreak of a feral disease (a disease that I’m not allowed to state if I want to keep my head) in our home town, I was the only one in our family of seven that caught the disease. We can all agree that calling it unfair would be a huge understatement; I had to be locked up in those airtight houses that are set up by the CDC while the rest of my family lounged around in their well ventilated rooms.

Yes as you can see, I was very bitter.

No I didn’t make any friends; you can’t really socialize when you’re on your death bed. No I didn’t get better with time; it was that feral.

One day/night/season, a government official walked into my airtight house like prison and gave me a document to sign. In it, it said, I wasn’t allowed to tell anyone what I had; apparently it was a government experiment gone wrong and they didn’t want anybody to find out about.

To be honest I didn’t need to sign a document to keep my mouth shut; I couldn’t pronounce or spell the virus even if I had a gun pointed to my head.

When they started explaining the effects of the virus to my ‘I don’t remember’ glands, I didn’t have the heart or the energy to tell them that I had a C+ in my final Biology exam and that was after 20 continuous hours of cramming so I had no idea what on earth they were talking about.

No I didn’t fight them and it wasn’t because I was dying. No I didn’t argue, and not because my throat was as airtight as my prison and yes I signed the document cause as much as I fancy a good old conspiracy movie one thing you learn from being the middle child is: don’t be the hero. That’s the first born’s job.

When I went back home after three months of continuous treatment, I had to keep my mouth as airtight as my house, my throat and my nose had been.

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