My home has been overrun with fleas. It's gross and embarrassing. My cat carried them in on her fur coat: little black felis, laying eggs and sucking blood. They jump and gnaw on warm flesh. They dodge my fingertips and hide in my bed.
I've gotten to the point where I don't want to stay inside, and if I do I can't sit on the floor or couch or chair--I'll be attacked. I can't go in the basement--I'll be devoured. I've been hiding out in the bathtub for days--fleas can't swim.
My legs are covered with bite marks. My ankles are red with rash. My feet itch. I might have rabies.
The flea plague is consuming me. When I sleep I feel them in my hair. Their little legs bound up and down my spine. I see them hiding in my freckles. I hear them whispering in my ear.
And everywhere I go, they follow. Yesterday I took some to work. Today I brought some to the hospital. I dropped a few off in Florida, and sent some in the mail to Canada.
This is life in a plague. Suffering, in whatever form, seizes your body and restricts your imagination, so that every thought is essentially one: Fleas.