Michell *******, 12 years of age. Currently in inpatient care at the city's central health facilities.

His condition is uncertain. It seems to stabilize right on the brink of death. To all the doctors in charge of his personal care, his illness is a mystery.

As if he refuses to die, he continues again and again to surprise the staff as he returns from a state of clinical death. Leaving the doctors to only scratch their heads more.

With every test coming back inconclusive and the outcomes of the treatments only worsening his condition. The doctors are at a loss.

Reviewing his medical history, a senor doctor of his team organises the information in hand. From the first signs of the mysterious illness.

A child barely the age of four is admitted to a local hospital with a severe case of pneumonia, from a simple cold his condition quickly worsened to the distress of his parents.

Following the condition as the standard treatments are carried out, although it was touch and go the childs stablizes.

A follow-up check before discharge shows a strange abnomality in the test. Such a thing wasn't unusual, tests require cross checks quite often for conclusive results.

Without much worry the technition at the time discharges the child with follow-up care instructions. If that was all it wouldn't have been worth noting, but the following night the child is rushed back by parametics after his heart stopped in his sleep.

Reaching a state of clinical death at the ER, the doctors sign his first death certificate. Not three hours later the child wakes up histerically crying in the morgue.

The number of incidents only increase. With the slow deterioration of his nervous system and circulation, by the age of 7 he lost all use of his legs.

His heart giving out regularly and his body slowly shutting down, without a single clue to the cause.

Starting back at the pneumonia the doctors started by searching for a viral or bacterial root. Ending up without any conclusive proof it was such. Testing for cancers and autoimmune responses, with no avail. If anything his cell growth and immune function was decreasing with the deterioration.

With the state of the illness, an illness quickly deteriorating the body and bringing the patient into a state of clinical death regularly, the child was admitted to a inpatient facility for his treatment.

Continuing through the medical log, the senor doctor has something else he is looking for. Although the log isn't as well kept as the treatment and condition log, he was curious about the mental deterioration.

The four years since his admittance, his mental health has greatly declined in the eyes of the doctors and nurses. Many believing it was normal, the child growing up in a hospital constantly fighting for his life. But the senor doctor was uncertain if it was a regular case of enviromental depression, but without a detailed log he can't link it to the illness as related.

Closing the documents, the doctor furrows his brow. He would have to ask the family directly if he wanted to know.

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Michell was laying in his hospital bed staring at the ceiling. Fatigue was currently overwhelming him, but he didn't feel the urge to revisit his reoccuring dream at the moment. He gazed over at the curtain dividing his room in two.

Stolen story; please report.

It was just out of reach, with the state of his legs and weakness that has threatened to make his arms follow suit, he wouldn't be able to move closer. He turned his head towards the door, as the sound of footsteps began to distinctly get closer.

He returned to looking at the ceiling as a nurse entered the room. She asked him several things about his condition, and he vaguly responded without interest. Whether it be his slowly numbing arms or the pain that assulted his head, he knew the medicine would only create more problems.

He slightly hoped one of the treatments would bring about an end of all this, whether to cure him or kill him. He would accept either without question.

She changes the drip and asks him if he will be eating today. He doesn't answer, his appetite was nonexistant and what he did eat gave him terrible cramps. His meals often ended in him vomiting or suffering for several hours. She was most likely aware of this.

Michell glaced at the folded wheelchair that was proped against the wall beside his hospital bed. He debated asking for a ride around the ward, he would often do so when he didn't feel like sleeping. There were few things to entertain patients in a hospital.

Few rooms had televisions, but the hospital currently only had antenna access and the reception was questionable. Magizines and books were an option, but they never interested the boy much. His education has stagnated in the hospital, and he wasn't able to read enjoyably.

Catching his gaze while he is lost in thought the nurse asks him if he wanted to go somewhere. He hesitates for a moment before taking the oppurtunity, with a quiet voice.

"If I can..."

The nurse took his quiet questioning tone as him being shy. This particular nurse was a regular visiter of Michell's, one that hasn't given up on making nice. 

She was young, probably barely even twenty. Her wild blond curls roughly tied back in a pony tail. Her dainty figure probably caused her to be mistaking for a teeager often. Though there was a gentle maturity in her pale blue eyes. Even for Michell who was adamant in his way, he wasn't so heartless that she didn't sway him ever so slightly.

Helping him into the wheelchair with a little effort, she wheeled him out of the room. It was often that this nurse would take him for rides through the ward. Though he would try his best not to be interested, she would still speak to him about life and experiances outside the hospital.

SFX/ skree squeee skree

He didn't know why, but it somehow calmed his mind. Leaning back in the chair and closing his eyes, he took in the feeling. Not too long after he fell asleep.

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The colorless wasteland filled Mitchells sight when he opened his eyes. As his feet dragged foward on the same cold path, he looked downwards.

His cold grey toes showing signs of necrosis as the lumbered on, he was not in pain thoough. He could only see the rot, he could not feel it. Not paying mind as the skin slowly peeled back from the rotting flesh and bone.

He looked up to see the same wrought iron gate in front of him. Reaching out a hand to grab it. 

Flinch

His hand jerked away from the bars, or at least what should have been hand. Blackened necrosis and tar thick blood had taken over his right apendage.

Flesh stripped off in layers, twisting away from his bones as they dropped to the cold ground. He clasped his hand tightly with the other hoping to halt the decay. But it was no use, the flesh fell apart further from his touch, exposing the small bones of his wrist and the beginning of his arm joint.

His breathing quickened as he looked back towards the gate. Doubtful he could move it with one hand alone, the servants of death on the other side were as unfazed as they had always been.

He fell to his knees clutching his arm as the rot steadly advanced to his elbow. Even without the pain and feeling, the shock overcame him. Such a thing has never happened before.

The slow rotting of his feet as he walked through this wasteland was a regular occurance, the rot would settle in the moment he set foot here. It always took his feet, but he was able to move on even at the loss of his toes. Watching the flesh blacken a fall away like mud made his stomach turn.

He frantically cried out towards the cemetary, knowing they would give no care. He still cried and screamed, with a voice that made no sound, and carried no further then his own throat.

The fog began to converge on his vision. Again banishing him from the cursed place.