The malaria thingy has got a hold of me. My mouth feels like cotton, my joints are on fire and a sharp pain sears through my stomach every couple of minutes. I alternate between sweating like a pig and burning up. I’ve retched air so many times, my throat is sore and a dull ache has settled on my chest.
I shouldn’t be working today. I shouldn’t, but I am. I blame my father, really. Not that I can explain why. I just know someone has to take the blame for this madness.
My father can also take the blame for my strange obsession not to die in a dirty house.
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