He raised a hand to liquid dripping from his nose, flinching as it came back coated with black ichor.
In spite of every precaution, in spite of every body burned and every half hour dedicated to scrubbing his body raw - the contagion had found a way inside. He was acutely aware of its progression, how nosebleeds meant it would be the lesser cranial strain that would leave him a stick-thin and heavily bruised pile of trembling bones as it ate him away from within.
Rushing to his instruments, as he fondly called them, he extracted a few vials of blood, three slides of the fresh ichor and set about determining a timeline for his demise. If he prepared enough he could at least die in the comfort of his own office, not deliriously wandering by the river like most of his former patients seemed to be drawn to.
Perhaps he'd feel the call of the river himself, he pondered as he watched his healthy red and white cells being torn asunder by the contagion. Perhaps he could save himself the trouble of wandering in delirium by setting himself up on a boat or floating platform - a final test that he could record for future doctors to use in their own search for a cure.
It felt like a better option than simply succumbing.
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