I am laying in bed, fast asleep, dreaming about waking up when through the soft billowy layers of my dream, and yes thinking back on it, it does seem to be a white mist, I hear coming towards me steps. The steps seem to stretch on for an eternity, the soft padding forever echoing, forever boding the ill that was to come. Pfff, pfff, pfff... In the endless space somewhere the door creaked. A pitiful voice weaseled it's way through the calm silence. "Eat, eat..." In a moment I am wrenched from my sleep when the voice persists. It is much more like a tornado siren now. "Eat, eat, eat!"
It is eight AM, and I know right there I have lost all pity. No it is not early, but when the whole household is sick, and all semblance of a routine has gone by the wayside, nine o'clock has been the norm for waking hours. (*hands on sides of face, gasp*)
I roll over and there is my three year old brother clutching his blue snot covered pillow to his face. I think to myself, "Man that thing needs to be washed." I shove the covers down away from my face and look around the darkened room. The house is silent except for the pitiful cries of my little brother. "Eat, eat!"