This was a short piece of junk I scribbled out at school, today. Read if you must.

Disclaimer: Jamocha101 owns everything. On Opposite Day.

Onward.

He shivered, only reminded of how freezing he was, even buried under five blankets, tucked in so tight, he wasn't able to move; not that he would be able to move, anyway. Why, then, he had to wonder, was he sweating?

He should have foreseen by the obvious symptoms, and went to see the doctor, before it came down to this. The past few weeks, his throat was burning an unexplainable flame of pain inside his neck, every time he swallowed, let alone talk, which eliminated singing, which he did anyway, In spite of himself. He regretted not telling his siblings earlier that he was feeling sick, but a sore throat, and occasional coughing fits were nothing to fuss over, and he needn't his family worry about him-he was supposed to worry about them, as an older brother. The guardian should never disregard his rightful duties, because there was a bug in his throat-his siblings became concerned when they noticed how little he spoke (the most out-of-character trait he could acquire), how little he ate, how little he slept, and how is eyes were becoming baggier every day. They became more concerned when his shoulders and back began to slouch, contradicting his customary confidence, and his legs appeared to become shaky, his nose becoming runny, and he had ceased all un-responsive dialog, all together. When he did talk, it sounded painful.

Of course, he was approached-several times, each one more earnest-concerning his gradually limper form, and every time, he simply refused, and insisted all he needed was more sleep-though it didn't tame his family's worries to contemplate that he was an insomniac. But oh, well. If he had a bug, he had a bug.

He didn't want them to worry.

It wasn't until that fine morning, when he crawled out of bed, after weeks of hiding his supposed illness, shaking so violently, he hardly kept himself on his feet, and had to limp weakly across his bedroom, silently thanking himself that his siblings were already awake, and in the kitchen, and couldn't see him shaking as if he were in sub-zero temperatures , his back hunched over so far, it receded his normal height by six inches.

Everything hurt. His throat scratched brutally, his chest was burning, as if it were on fire. He would have to push himself to act as though he were alright, so his siblings wouldn't be suspicious. That would be hard; he could barely stand up straight.

He mustered enough strength to disguise himself from appearing as diseased as he felt, but if only for a short time.

He didn't want them to worry.

He was freezing, shaking, aching, sick. But his siblings shouldn't have to take of him. They shouldn't have that burden. He had to convince himself that the "bug" would go away. He had to convince them that the bug would go away.

But he could only go so far, before the charade became too much.

He only sat down, but the moment he had, he began heaving, unbelievable coughs into his elbow that sounded as though he had been gargling nails. He tried to stop, but he couldn't, and the pain in his throat only became worse, every cough hailing out, his body shaking, his chest barreling infrequently; he couldn't breathe. He tried to inhale, but he couldn't. He tried to exhale, but coughs came out, instead.

Everything clouded from the accumulated water in his already-glassy eyes, and he could hardly hear the panicked interjections, and inquiries between his two siblings. They sounded so worried.

He didn't want them to worry.

He knew he took it too far, waited too long. His intention wasn't to make himself more sick, oh no, he just wished his siblings wouldn't have to take care of him, to worry about him. He only saw now, how much that backfired, and he couldn't believe he allowed it to do so, to such an extent. Passed the coughs, the wheezes, the tears, and burns, and aches, he could only calculate what an idiot he was.

He didn't want them to worry.

Of course, it was too late for that-his siblings were clearly scampering in maximum concern for their heaving brother. The lack of breathing must have been draining the oxygen from his brain, because everything kept fading, in and out. He was so dizzy.

He could feel hands clinging to him, draped over his shoulders, trying to lead him to the exit, which must have failed, because he felt his knees heavily hit the floor. He tried to get up, but only succeeded because his siblings gingerly tugged him to his feet, and he felt himself sitting on something soft. The couch? That must mean he couldn't walk.

The next thing he could sense was a new voice, more coughs, a hand on his forehead, and waking up in a new place. His bed. With a damp ice pack draped over his brow, and his siblings by his side. He only wished to know what happened-at least he wasn't heaving anymore; at least he could breathe. But every breath he took, his chest stung, sending a terrible stinging sensation up his never-more-stiff neck. Everything hurt. His arms, his legs, his head, his nose, his eyes, his feet-everything to his fingertips was aching like the Dickens. No wonder he couldn't move. But the aches and pains were the last that came to mind, as he slowly, and painfully, turned his head to see his siblings' terribly relived expressions, which suddenly fell lividly , quickly resulting in a reunioned, effortful hug, and a searing question-

"Why didn't you tell us you were sick?"

At once, he fult a wave of guilt flush completely over him, only adding to the pain. With the vocals that didn't feel completely inflamed, he wearily choked a barely audible response-

"I-" he stopped to cough a sudden splash of phloem from his burning throat-"I didn't want you to worry…"

Please don't brick me. I don't believe this is one of my better works, but I just felt, that since I wrote it, I might as well post it. I know there's a billion unanswered questions, I know it's choppy, I know it's vague, I know it's over-dramatic, I know it's out of character, it just came to me through the Voices. So blame them. And blame the Pencil.

By the way, thank you to everyone who reviewed my previous story, you are great persons, and I love the genuine feedback you gave me. Peace.