The sickness is a failsafe, the code to a sleeping virus written in my cells. Should I ever make the mistake of believing we stand even a remote chance, here at this most fundamental level is the proof of what we are: marked; condemned; ill-fated. There are countless fragments, after all, myriad lives which we play out to their inevitable end. It therefore stands to reason that in some incarnation destiny and random chance might intersect to create the possibility of perfection, a true ‘happy ending’ as they say. The basic rules of probability allow for such an event, even predict its occurrence. Of course this risk cannot be allowed, not for us, and so the disease lurks forever in my blood, awaiting the time it might awake, propagate, and decay me from the inside out. It is one constant in all the variations of our existence, as sure a thing as the love which lends it such destructive power. It is a reminder that no matter the circumstances, no matter how otherwise blessed we might seem this time around, the end will remain one of blood and abandonment; a promise that I will always be the one to leave, that he will always be the one left behind. There is no possibility of a happy ending for us.


[ Meta-Daren has a serious grudge against me whether I have any control over this story or not. Awkward. ]


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