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BEEEEEEEEEEP
This one was out, too. Fuck. Dan rips off the pump with a fervor, not even wincing at the sting of the adhesive taking hair off with it, and immediately begins fumbling with the packaging of the next one as the expired one continues to wail.
Sure, he has another vial of insulin left, but he’s already gone through a week’s supply and it HASN’T WORKED.
BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEP
Dan’s body takes up most of the apartment now, cramped and spiralling as legs and torso scrabble to try to find a comfortable arrangement. The sensory overwhelm of this certainly doesn’t help with the sick feeling in his stomach. He feels dry. Sweaty. Nauseous. All in a manner of words. He knows half of what’s happening to him and it’s worse than not knowing the other half.
He saw the chaos outside. There’s no way the hospital’s open. Hell, would he even fit in a ambulance by now?
He huffs dryly as the screaming pod finally shuts up so he can put the next one on. Ha ha. That’s like something someone in chat would bring up. He doesn’t want them to see him like this now. They’d told him to look and he did! And now they wouldn’t even tell him what was going on.
It’s routine.
Fill it, wait for it to calibrate, pop the plastic tab off, then the backing, then stick it on, then tell it to put the cannula in and wait for the preliminary ticking to stop. He still winces when the cannula pierces thicker skin.
Dan had done this three times already, in much faster succession than he knows is normal.
Input for the max units it’ll allow at one time-forty-and wait. His body continues to churn.
Water hasn’t helped his thirst at all, but he fills a glass from the sink and chugs it anyway. Maybe it’ll start working this time. Maybe he’ll be fine.
Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick.
Heavily, he tries to keep breathing from his nose, but this is hard. He pants from the dehydration. Nowhere to lie down. He doesn’t want to die.
He still remembers the day the school nurse had to call in a ambulance, how he’d sat confused in a hospital bed as the concepts of carbohydrates and ketoacidosis were explained to him. How his life would never be the same.
He can barely remember anything before that day. Why is he remembering it now?
Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick.
He collapses against himself and tries to focus on just breathing. He can’t keep anything down, he knows this. Hunger and thirst both plauge him.
The TV is off.
Ketoacidosis. He doesn’t like that word much, it sounds as sharp as it is.
Oh God, he thinks. I’m going to die. I should have listened to Mom. Please, I don’t want to die.
He sniffles.
Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick.
Mom. Yes. She was right. He groans. If he’d just listened to her, done everything right, he wouldn’t be in this situation right now. She’d have cured him, and that would be one less thing to worry about in all the things wrong with him.
His eyes flit along the pop-corn ceiling numberlessly counting plaster kernels as he tries to think of something, anything that could help.
Dan had long since gotten rid of those little oily bottles which he didn’t know the contents of, the other injectable that made him throw up….God, why did all of her ‘cures’ have to have been stuff that did nothing but make him sick.
Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick.
Carnivore diet. Maybe that? She said it lowered blood sugar without insulin. That had made him sick without much result too, and she’d gotten rid of all of Dan’s other food then, but now his other food would make him even more sick…
He’d just have to find meat. Yeah. He can live with that.
The nausea rises. He needs to eat something. Drink something. Scrabbling on many feet, he moves to the front door and opens it. There’s space here. More space. Dan’s new lower half is unweildy and he doesn’t know where it ends, but he can deal with that later. There’s more pressing issues at hand.
Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick.
There’s someone in the hallway. Short and nervous-looking. Her eyes widen on seeing him.
His mouth feels wrong. Something like a needle, like IV cabling in there. Sickening still. He doesn’t want meat. Meat would make him sick. Something else.
Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. BEEEEEEEP.
He doesn’t feel any different. The pump controller’s back in the apartment. He doesn’t feel like getting it. His eyes do not leave the other’s.
“Hhhhey, buddy.”
His mouth feels dry.
The figure freezes in the manner of a deer in headlights. “Hi…”
He moves forward, leaning against a wall for support. His lower sections begin to file out of the apartment, more room, finally. He stretches. Many sections of his spine go pop-pop-pop. She winces.
“I need hhhhelp. Real bad. We’re buddies, right?”
He’s seen her before, in the elevators. He doesn’t know her name, though. Ooh. That isn’t good. He’s good with names, he should know this. He dry-swallows.
“Uh….”
Her eyes dart to the side. Part of him blocks the hallway to both left and right.
Unsteadily, Dan takes his hands off of the walls and leans towards her. It feels weird to, it’s hard to keep his body up, but he doesn’t immediately collapse. That’s good. He’d look lame if he fell over!
“I’m-I don’t want to hurt you. I’m just-”
Hands splay out in front of him to show a lack of weapons.
“I just need help. Okay?”
She nods, eyes still darting.
“What do you need help with..?”
“How do I…” He pauses for a moment, body churning. “I’m hungry.”
Something snaps into fear in her expression.
She makes a run for it-only to trip over a particularly well-shadowed segment of body.
“Don’t-hhhrk-freak out!”
His hands go to his head. No no no. This is going bad, he shouldn’t have said that. His tongue feels thick in his mouth. He opens it, and oh. That’ll be what he does it with. The information comes naturally, as if he’s always had this. Always done this.
One of his hands, one of the lower ones, grabs her leg.
It’ll be fine. It won’t hurt, won’t leave scars, just take it quick and he’ll be fine and they’ll be friends.
This is what friends do. Help each other.
He breathes, heavy and shaking.
He’s so thirsty. So hungry.
“Iffht-won’t-“
The sentence never finishes.
It doesn’t take long for him to tune out the screaming, as the thingie drills down through flesh and reaches bone. Inside is what he’s been looking for. Immediately, relief overcomes him-Yes, he was right, she was right, this is what he needs. Sure, the kicking is pretty unpleasant as he navigates further up the humerus, but that’s fine, really! Gotta crack a few eggs to make an omelette. His face feels wet, tears drip onto the floorboards to meet up with their red brethren. Man, how nice of this lady. Every time he thinks he’s reached the end, there’s always more! Always more relief. His body hitches with sobs.
It doesn’t take very long for her to stop moving.
Finally, he drops his new friend and lies down on the floor, wiping his eyes and blinking rapidly. His fingers twitch, finally his breathing evens. This is fine. He could live with injecting himself every day for ten years, he can live with…this. He’ll just need to find people willing to help him. And the people here are nice! Surely it’ll be easy. Easier than having to argue with the insurance people. He always hated having to do that.
He crawls back into his apartment, past himself, past her still on the couch, and into his room. Surely some computer-time would settle his nerves.
A few hours later, the relief is gone. This time, he feels less panic. He knows what’s wrong! He just has to go out for a bit. Find some new friends.