The sickness never ends

Time.

Stood.

Still.

There was no sound, no movement as Veigar stood at the base of Mount Volkan and peered up toward the peak. The volcano seemed to stretch infinitely before him, a climb that grew and grew as he stood there and his vision faded in and out, blurring painfully as neon green ooze dripped down his cheeks. His idle paws twitched, his body calling him to climb, climb, climb while his mind protested. The tug-of-war between body and mind was constant, incessant, merciless. Climb. Stay. Flee. Stay. Run. Stay. He had no mother, no family. They were all gone, sick, dead in his mind. For weeks now he'd distanced himself from them as his paranoia grew, first latching on to anything that made him feel needed.

But now it was too late. He was nothing, nobody, just a vessel for decay. The pustules that had begun to appear on his legs were a sign of his body succumbing to the sickness, a sure sign of his impending death, and his wavering sight was yet another sign among so many. The world seemed permanently blurred now, even when the oozing periodically slowed. You are a waste, anyway. No one will even notice when you're gone. He was as good as dead, he was sure of it. Veigar heaved a shuddering breath as he began walking again, trying to find a way to escape his thoughts, but they hung heavy over him like a hovering rain cloud.