Gone

This disease...

Why did it chose Denzel?

Why did it chose me?

No, I know why but...

Things are getting harder now, though I won't admit it to the others.

Who am I to admit I'm in pain when there's a nine-year-old boy who's been suffering much longer than I have just in the room over? I am nobody to say anything.

I avoid the TV and radio because I don't want to hear about any more cases or deaths, for my sake as well as my family's. As much as I hate to admit it I know I have limits, and I won't bring those I care about down with me if I happen to break. I certainly won't help induce it.

In the end, Cloud, Denzel, Marlene, Barrett and the rest of Avalanche are too precious to me to worry more than I have to. At least Cloud has found out. Telling the children will be different though and in truth, a part of my hopes they will never have to know. Surely children that young should never have to find out about something like this.

A clatter, crash, and hushed curse later Tifa found herself looking into the hazelnut eyes of Denzel, who looked guiltily back into hers as soap suds and fragments of a ceramic plate covered the kitchen floor at his feet. She simply smiled.

"You shouldn't curse, Denzel," she said in her motherly tone and began to pick up the larger pieces of plate. He bent down to help her.

"No, no, no. You're dropping things because you're tired. Go upstairs and rest."

"But -"

"Go on. I can handle this myself." When she saw his guilty expression she added, "I'd rather you rest than look at me like that again."

As she bent down with a dustpan and brush to sweep away the smaller fragments it wasn't long before she felt hazelnut eyes still staring at her.

"What is it?"

Denzel shifted uncomfortably on his feet, though his gaze remained strongly locked on her. "You're tired, too."

For a moment Tifa couldn't say anything.

"You move slower," he mumbled, "and sometimes you look like you're about to pass out, though I don't think you notice."

She did notice, though she also thought she'd been hiding it pretty well.

"Maybe you should rest, too." It had been an innocent request.

"Cloud, is Tifa sick?" Marlene asked from beside his elbow, too short to reach the full height of his chair.

Cloud stared blankly into space for a moment before swivelling to face her. He placed a kind hand on her head. "Tifa will be okay."

Marlene looked carefully at him, distrusting his calmness.

"Don't tell her this but I want you to look out for her," he said with a tinge of pleading in his voice.

Marlene was taken back, but nodded her head under the weight of his hand. It didn't matter what the problem really was, she'd always look out for Tifa. Ever since she'd noticed a change in her, how worn down she had become, it hadn't taken long for her to guess something was wrong. As a child, she guessed she'd be the last one to know what it was that was bothering Tifa. Adults were just secretive like that.

It didn't matter whether she was about to drop something, feeling faint under the burden of the constant pain, or zoning out from tiredness, Cloud was always suddenly right there next to her. One afternoon a glass had simply slipped through her fingers and the next thing his blond hair was bobbing up from behind the counter, his hand holding it. She would say sorry. He would tell her not to be and walk back to his corner of the room, a spot he barely left nowadays.

She felt guilty for keeping him away from his deliveries, even if he did still do one or two during the day. Again, she would say sorry and he would tell her not to be. The children had grown a keen eye for following her movements as well, and that made her nervous. Another thing was that Marlene had developed a habit of insisting on doing the menial tasks she had previously avoided. Tifa would say things like, "It's okay, Marlene, you should go up to bed," only for Marlene to reply, "I live in this house too and I want to do my share of the work!" and get stuck into whatever task it was before Tifa could object again. On top of all this, Denzel continued to remind her of how tired she looked.

Thankfully the attacks weren't so violent now, or so abrupt. Instead of the spontaneous jarring that would temporarily render her whole body a nervous, desperate wreck, the pain was more constant. A hammering pins and needles feeling more prominent in her side, around her tummy and through her shoulder than anywhere else. It could also sometimes feel like a numbing, throbbing ache, and at other times a rough grating of sandpaper against her bare flesh. It varied. Either way, from what she knew due to hearsay and the radio that she now avoided, she had entered a later stage in this incurable disease. In the next stage she would be bedridden.

Swallowing hard she bowed her head between her forearms where they lay on the bar. Her hair tickled the ingrains in the wood. Her torso felt like a heavy and unshakable weight shackled around whatever it was that was meant to be there instead. Vacant eyes turned towards the ceiling. She had survived four months and counting.

A familiar set of footsteps came down the stairs and came to stand beside her. Cloud mirrored her position on the bar and then looked forwards into nothing. A few peaceful moments passed.

"What's wrong?"

Her shoulders nearly caved inwards at the question. There was so much that was wrong, but she felt it would be selfish to confess it. Instead she turned her vacant eyes towards the floor.

"Stop apologizing, Tifa. We all care about you, so just say thank you."

Her breath caught and she made to say something but it died in her throat. Sighing and rearranging the words in her head she said, "Thank you."

"I told I'd always be there to remind you of how cheerful and strong you are," he shrugged.

Invisible strings suddenly began to knit together the resolve to live in her heart. She almost felt lighter, remembering how she used to be. For the first time in months she genuinely smiled. "Thank you," she said again.

He brought her into his arms, his embrace becoming more like a cradle as she rocked into his warmth and comfort. "Never give up," he whispered.

The number of times she'd had to support herself on the bar had become countless weeks ago. There would be moments where the world would blur and appear to suck inwards and towards her as if she was a huge vacuum of reality. In moments like that she guessed that to other people she looked as if she was having a bad zone-out, or, as Denzel had called it, looking as if she was about to pass out. Patrons were commenting more frequently that she looked unwell, usually having caught her in such an episode. Nonetheless she would shrug it off with a smile. She couldn't afford to lose customers, certainly not right now.

But then Cloud suggested she stop working.

"Why would I do that?"

"You're not well, Tifa. You can't keep this up."

Her hands clenched around a glass. "I'm still moving, aren't I?"

He unfolded his arms and tried to catch her eye, but she was ignoring him. "It would be best for you."

"And what about everyone else? We're hardly making enough money as it is." She decided against highlighting it was mainly due to his neglect of his own job. After all, he was doing it for her. "If I can still work I will."

She didn't miss his sigh, a sign of defeat. "I have a delivery to make to North Corel tomorrow."

She simply nodded. "So you'll be off early. I'll leave your lunch in the fridge, if you like."

He cast one last gaze in her direction before pushing off from the counter. "Sure. That'd be great."

Sprinkling the last of the tarragon on the chicken she slid the tray into the hot depths of the oven. The hot air pouring out made her head dizzy and clouded. She fanned the inconvenient feeling away with an oven glove before slamming it into the kitchen surface. The hard smacking sound took her by surprise. It wasn't like her to be short-tempered.

Moving back into the bar area she scanned the floor for new customers but there were none. Marlene was standing by the door looking into the street outside, ready to enthusiastically welcome patrons into the restaurant. Denzel was in the garage doing something mechanical Cloud had set him to do, probably to do with Fenrir. The windows were slightly hazy with condensation from the colder temperatures on the other side of the glass. The fans span round lazily on their fixtures to the ceiling. Tifa shivered.

"What's wrong?" she heard Cloud say in her head.

"Nothings wrong," she had wanted to say. She then remembered the watchful glances that Cloud cast from his now vacant corner.

"Stop apologizing, Tifa. We all care about you, so just say thank you... I told I'd always be there to remind you of how cheerful and strong you are." She was so lucky to have him, she thought to herself.

Then she remembered something else he had said, "You can't keep this up." It struck a sour taste in her mouth.

"Yes I can," she muttered under her breath.

"You're not well, Tifa."

She grit her teeth. "I'm not going to die just yet." Tears began to form in her eyes.

"We all care about you..."

"Exactly!"

Her flesh burnt red-hot. Her pupils constricted hard to slits. The bar shook, distorted. The windows shattered in her ears and the ground began to swallow her up from beneath. She lost all feeling of her legs as they crumpled. Her blood boiled as the thick, dark, putrid puss shot through her veins, skin and slammed against her organs. She couldn't feel the ground, she couldn't breathe the air and then suddenly everything was quiet except for the sound of her own laboured breathing. Her eyes were already closed. Her consciousness passed on.