VALETUDINARIAN - (n) a sickly or weak person, especially one who is constantly and morbidly concerned with his or her health
Jennifer knew it was inside her. In her heart. Her lungs. Her veins. Everywhere.
The Infection.
She knew that had to be the reason that she was looking and feeling better rather than the expected worse. Her wounds were healing nicely, her appetite was returning, and her body was processing her surrounding much more clearly. Her nose, which historically couldn't tell the difference between 3-week-old cheese and a slice of freshly-baked pie, could now detect the stench of baking flesh and freshly spilled blood. There was also something else in the air, wafting from beneath the mysterious locked door. She couldn't quite place the name of it, but she knew it so well.
"Ugh, this…thing has literally soaked into my pores. I don't smell at all," she said to no one in particular. With a big sigh, she went about to prepare a bath and to get her clothing clean as well. She picked at a crusty stain on her shirt with a scrunched face before grabbing at her backpack. The medical kit sat off to the side of the couch omnisciently.
She pictured the contents: gauze, pain medication, bandages, tweezers, a suture kit, antiseptic, blood test, cotton balls, antibacterial wipes, iodine, and a various combination of over-the-counter pills. She had tossed the probably old and ineffective condoms that had made their way inside. A small, undisturbed bag, shielded with black with a female symbol upon it, had been buried at the bottom almost strategically. She had yet to open it, though she was sure of the contents within. Midol, Pamprin, pads, tampons, a pregnancy test or two, and quite possibly some birth control.
She took it up into her arms after a moment of staring. Quickly, she ran for the bathroom, her subconscious afraid a group of those monsters may suddenly materialize and take after her like fresh meat. She locked the bathroom door, taking a pause to gather her thoughts. Tub, then mirror, then bathe, medication, and wash her clothes.
She ran water into the porcelain basin at the far side of the room, testing the temperature with her hand. It was warm, though not nearly hot enough to sterilize anything. Her face drew a shallow frown. She would have to make do. She filled the tub and removed her clothing slowly, careful not to tear any of her finally closing scars wide open. She laid them out in order of removal: pants, shirt, socks, bra, underwear. As she laid her covers down into a pile, she thought about her life briefly. She's always been a creature of such order. So predictable. Maybe even too predictable. She had to learn how to adapt if she was going to survive. Adaptation meant change. An unwanted shudder ran through her.
Very slowly, she placed her socks before her pants.
"Ugh", she groaned. "Don't change it back, Jenn. Just leave it…just leave it."
After taking a couple of deep breaths, she resumed with her tasks. Once she was nude, she moved to the cracked full-length mirror attached to the door to assess the damage. Most of the pus had been drained from her sores. Scabs had overcome her arms and legs from her fights with the Infected and with her sanity.
She lined her fingers over the messy work of her stitching. Some of the threads had frayed and were coming loose. She flicked these gently, a slight grimace of pain and disfavor etching across her face. They would need to be taken out, the wound cleaned thoroughly, and fresh stitches put in. It wasn't going to be an easy job, but that was a task for later. She checked the rest of herself and assured her troubled mine that nothing new was present and nothing old was getting worse.
Jenn grabbed shampoo, conditioner, and the bar of Dove soap from her bag, placing them one at a time on the edge of the basin. She placed a washcloth in the water and laid out a towel to dry herself. The tub wasn't the cleanest thing on the world, but she couldn't afford to be picky.
The injured Immune entered the water slowly, letting her tired muscles submerge under the surface. A sigh of pleasure escaped her chapped lips as she sunk into the warm, wet caress down to her nose. She exhaled heavily, ripples of water running from her face. It felt good to finally not worry about the things of tomorrow. Not to wonder if her friends would be taken by the Infection, either naturally or by the mad scientists. Not to wonder if the barricade would hold against the next Tank or pack of Hunters or horde of Commons.
After another few minutes of soaking and feeling grateful that she was alive, she cleansed herself diligently and, after draining and rerunning fresh water into the basin, dried herself. She twisted her hair into a messy up-do and went to work cleaning her wounds.
For once, as she slit old sutures and prepared new thread, a creak of some sort came from the main room. She almost didn't hear it over the faucet, and she was sure that any other day, she wouldn't have. It was probably just the window or something. This building was old, anyway.
She began to thread the needle through her skin when she heard it again. Another creak was closer than the first, and it was almost right outside of her door. She froze, paralyzed. One of those monsters was in her house! What was it doing? Looking for her? Could it hear her heartbeat as it rammed against het ribcage? Could it smell her fear and blood?
She quickly and silently went for her bag. She prayed her gun was within, but as she dug, her hope faded. Dammit. She must've left it on the counter. Very cautiously, she opened the door and she almost screamed.
A Charger was walking about her "home", but he looked…organized. He didn't bother with her food storages, and he didn't notice her, or try to break down the bathroom door to get at her. He placed a small white box on the counter, and a notebook with what appeared to be a pencil. Another sound came from the other end of the room, and he turned out of the line of sight to address it. The grunts and screeches gave Jenn goose bumps. Was that a Hunter? A Spitter, maybe? She backed away from the door. It would do nothing to protect her the second they decided to attack.
After a few more minutes, there was a click and silence, aside from her internal screams of bloody murder. Why did they torture her? It was a trap! It had to be! She remained curled into the tub, rocking slightly. A plane flew overhead rather closely, rattling the roof and ripping a cry from her throat. She didn't even feel the splintered support beam that had tumbled through the roof, effectively pinning her down.
A door burst open, and she could hear anger, but nothing was definite. The world went black around her and silence swallowed her whole.