The disease started as an infection. At first I did not–I could not perceive I was ill. Surely, my sight deceived me, and disregarding the fact, I walked and talked as though the wounds were not there. Gradually, the injuries cut into the bloodstream. In time, I told myself, the body would heal itself. Yet, with time, the wounds grew larger; the aching and the throbbing moved from the joints to the abdomen and to the chest. I began to feel my energy declining and my frame decaying. My heart beats with thoughts of deceasing. My once spirited character seems now some cheerful woman of a past life.
When I grasped the magnitude of the fever, it had already spread such as a thunderstorm that covers the ground to the very last dirt, such as poison that corrodes the nervous system to the minuscule molecule, such as death that consumes the final fluttering of the eyes. The virus like most sickness was dormant—till at last the horrifying disorder had manifested itself completely into the depth of my soul. Once the plague penetrated my brain, I became mad with passion.
They say, the disease is a demented animal that tears not only its prey but also the raging heart. The disease is the agony which a woman feels from the trauma that she has been betrayed by the person whom she entirely trusts–from love was this disease born.
"I loved you when you were unfaithful; what would I have done if you were true?" -Jean Racine