A cold no, but pneumonia yes. Not long after the rain had begun to drench the earth, Brook had found a small boathouse just a little ways from port. It was cold, damp, and dirty, but better then directly sleeping out in the freezing rain. Fall had begun only a couple of weeks ago, though the weather wasted no time chilling the air around him and making nights almost unbearable. However, when the sun finally reared itself from behind the clouds the following morning, and while Brook would have been amongst the first to greet the returning warmth with open arms and a smile so wide it could rival the sky, he instead stayed locked away within the dingy shed, unable to really move at all. Sometime during the course of the frigid night, he had managed not only to have developed a nasty cough but a fever of 105. But how could he know this? Brook had gotten sick plenty of times over the years, his own personal cure usually just thinking positive and waiting it out. But even with all the optimism the boy possessed, he couldn't deny that something was terribly wrong.
He sat at the very far end of the shed, back up againt the soggy wall, body aching, cheeks burning with the flush of fever, with a very uncomfortable draft running down his neck. A window was above him, slightly ajar, which would explain why he'd woken up soaked. He would have cried for help, but there was no strength in his voice, just a whisper, not that anyone would come to his aid anyhow. Brook was an outcast and he'd accepted that fact long ago. His breath quivered in short, quick gasps every time he inhaled, his lungs having no choice but to painfully and rigidly take in the air around him. He couldn't seem to stop shaking either. Sometimes it was rough, other times he could manage, but every time he'd get close to sleep, a new spell of violent shaking would force him awake. "I'll get better. I'll get better," he repeated to himself, feebly rubbing away at his arms in a sickly attempt to cease the unsettling chill that continued to run down his spine and made his skin crawl.
Brook curled into himself, his thin frame quivering, though this time from anger. He couldn't die yet! In fact he refused! "I'll get-" He could feel his body beginning to slump to one side. In a panic, Brook kicked and screamed, snarled and punched at the air, or at least in his mind he did, but even that was starting to get old to a point where he began to plead with his body, begging it to get better one last time and he'd promise to never get sick again, though his efforts were in vain. His vision swam as blotches of black ate away at his sight. This was so unfair. Nothing good had happened to him yet. He had waited so long. What was the point of his living all this time? Maintaining his life so he could finally make something good of it? Brook felt the chilling bite of the stone floor against his cheek as his body sank to the ground. He didn't even have the strength to sit up anymore. His eyes focused on a single pale splotch where the stone was discolored and stained. Then they locked. He could no longer close his eyelids. Brook whimpered, the last sound before his throat swelled shut, hot tears rolling down his flushed cheeks as he silently cried. Death was taking him and he could feel it. "I'm sorry." He mouthed the words over and over. He wasn't sure to whom or even what he was apologizing for. It just hurt, so he had to say it. "I'm sorry. I'm sor-"
I made myself cry. Sorry for the short chapter, but must I really carry on...please don't make me.