Alfred wondered how long he had been stuck here, bedridden. Months, weeks, days, hours? It felt more than just a couple days, every minute dragged on endlessly for him, as if he was imprisoned inside his own house. He wondered if anyone at the World Conference meetings noticed he was gone, that he wasn't sitting there and naming off his ideas to them with pride and confidence in the plans he managed to think up. To his side, he heard a soft rapping on the window. His heart let off a slow jump with what he thought was hope - someone had learned he wasn't there, someone was here to check on him afterall. Weakly, he tilted his head, staring over at the window, and to his dismay, he didn't see anything; or rather, anyone. He turned his head warily back to look at his ceiling, a heavy blanket of depression laying overtop of his body. In his chest, his heartbeat felt irregular and sluggish with sickness. The clock chimed from the living room, and tears stung Alfred's throat. Something had made him sick in the first place, but he had difficulty just remembering what he did an hour ago, lately. He hadn't been able to get up and try his luck at getting some food for himself; the first time he tried that, he ended up collasping right then and there beside his bed, and had to haul himself up onto the mattress again. But that seemed like ages ago, now. He didn't even want to think of food, the mere thought of even a burger made his stomach curl in on itself, and he would gag. It was as if his body was slowly shutting down - each organ was dying off with each chime of the grand clock. Tick, tock, tick, tock. Tick, tick, tick. Alfred's eyes drifted closed, his breathing shallow. The ticking was getting duller in his mind, seeming to go far away, and Alfred wondered if the clock was falling, only to realize he was simply drifting off again into a sleep that was uncalled for and unwanted. He was afraid to close his eyes, because then his lungs would give out, and he wouldn't be able to breathe, and he would have to wait for his heart to stop as well. The tears built slowly leaked from the corners of his eyes, running down his face and soaking the pillow beneath his head. He felt bile rise in the back of his throat, a wave of heat and sweat washing over him in despair at the sickening feeling rolling in his stomach. He didn't have anything left to puke up, and yet he still got sick, as if his organs were trying to heave themselves up out of his body. Alfred hummed softly to himself at the thought. If he was his organs, dying inside of him, he'd want to get out, too.