Aftermath, No. 2

July 15, 2041
I don't know why I'm still alive. My lungs feel like plexiglass insulation and rotten hay. I haven't been able to breathe properly for several days now. I haven't been able to see for slightly longer than that. Everyone knows the symptoms of plague, and I have them. My skin will start to peel off soon.
It's good to know I have something to look forward to besides copious vomiting, anemia, and "optical hemorrhaging."
In English: eye bleeding.
It's ironic really. I'm not entirely sure exactly how it's ironic, but I keep getting the sense that it is. It's possible that I'm confusing the squirming botfly larvae in my left leg for irony. Irony, apparently, is similar to botfly larvae.
"Are you alright?" Eve asks me. It's very sweet, but just makes me feel worse. I like Eve, but it doesn't stop me from replying:
"Just go away."
"I don't want you to die." Eve says.
I try to say something about septic shock and body substance isolation. All that comes out is a cough.
"You aren't going to get better are you? I mean, you're actually going to die."
"It's a twenty-four hour bug."
"That means you'll be dead in twenty-four hours."
I knew something was ironic.