Crrrrrch. “Come in Madame Commander. Over.”
Guilt paces the room a striking figure, shoulders ramrod straight. She wears her namesake not in the turn of her shoulders or the hanging of her head. No. Her albatross is a cloak around her neck, the weight absorbed by every organ. She lifts the two way radio to her lips. Crrrrrch. “Come in, Cerebral Cortex. Over.”
CC adjusts his glasses, clears his throat. He knows what he has to tell her will signal a tsunami throughout the host. A trickle of sweat beads at his brow. Crrrrrch. “It seems we have another patient. Over.”
Crrrrch. “Who is it?”
CC dabs the sweat with his kerchief. Crrrrrch. “It seems, it’s….” his voice trails off. He pauses, steels his resolve, “It’s the patriarch.” He leaves some silence, “Over.”
The news catches Guilt by surprise. She knew it was a possibility, but certainly a slim one. The patriarch was celebrated just days ago, before her host body, daughter of said patriarch and patient zero, knew she was infected. One by one family members were reporting either illness or wellness. And now this. The weight of the cloak grows heavier and Guilt momentarily closes her eyes to the force of it.
CC is handed a new report. He reads it quickly and is hopeful he can stem the tide. Crrrrrch. “Madam, I just received another report. Over.”
Her eyes are still closed. Crrrrch “Go on. Over.”
Crrrrch “It seems here, the matriarch, also called the Church Lady, has stated his infection could be purely coincidental. He could have gotten it anywhere. Over.”
Crrrrch “Nonsense. That is nothing beyond an attempt to appease the host. Now, did you get a report on how the matriarch is feeling? Over.”
CC checks his notes again, dreads what he has to say. Crrrch “It says here she has a tickle in her throat.”
And with that, Guilt slams the two way radio to the ground, storms across the room and yanks a second cloak from her wardrobe.
Inspired to personify by my writerly friend Cindy and her post: here