In Virinian mythology, the universe has lasted over ninety cycles of life, a large canvas for Virinia and Her pantheon.
In the early cycles, She birthed a Son, Vega, the embodiment of flora and fauna. A joyful man, a God ruling over nature, earth, fertility, health, and fungi. One with an everlasting, bountiful garden; The No End Grove.
Now His Groves unrecognizable. Lurking in the shadows His court follows you. The garden became a dangerous swamp, stinking of rot and death and sex. Visitors become tenants. Instead of flora and fauna and health and love, He’s death, the reaper, venom, and plague, among others.
But He’s still fungi.
His name changed from watering the fields to reaping the dead, and His kindly head of snakes became an angry hoard of serpents.
The libraries and mythologies say that He ends the world when Virinia must restart Her canvas. That He inflicts a horrible plague upon humankind. First, a small cold. Then strep throat. Following the oh so bad strep, your hives burst into open sores and holes so deep you can poke fat. The fever and chills and sweating get worse. Your heart hammers. You become deluded, and your mobility becomes impaired by your clouded vision. You possess such bad intrusive thoughts that you start to harm yourself and others even worse. The sun becomes perpetually red in our vision, and we hallucinate as bad as a schizophrenic.
I’m writing this because I have holes in my skin. I can pull out my own fat with tweezers if I wanted to. I can give myself liposuction if I wanted to. I’m writing this because another patient gave me a phone before her death. I’m writing this because this is what I’ve been told before death. I’m posting this here, to warn you. Before my Euthanasia.
My little towns being infected. Not by Vega’s “plague” like the ancient mythologies or like what They say. But by His fungus. His Hell for us, for our end times. The fungi that diseases us is in full bloom.
I thought it was just a cold I could fight off. When it progressed to strep, I went to a doctor. I got my meds for it and quarantined. It lasted three months of just strep.
Until I woke up with the holes and realized I was finally being laid off. By both work and life. I checked into a hospital.
They took me away. Put me under anesthesia, and I woke up 13 hours away. In a strange facility. They’re called the “FIF”, or whatever. Everyday they’ve been pulling out muscle and fat through the tiny holes in my body, testing it and testing it and testing it. They’re going to kill me. I’m surprised they haven’t already.
They don’t know why the Red Sun fungus is acting up here. It’s nowhere near the end of the cycle; otherwise everyone would have it. They’re scared. Our governments in all of the world know, I’m sure of it. They’re covering things up. They don’t want an uproar. But I’m in a room with thirty four other people just like me. Some in early stages, some in the late stages. We’re being experimented on, and I can only hope it can save the rest of you. I can’t stand the pain.
I’m fucking scared. Real fucking scared.
This phones dying soon, so please. Remember.
If you have these holes, just kill yourself. It’s the only way to stop it.
Love, Bian