Poor Little Thing

“You poor little thing,” Marsha said.

She looked in the glass, down the metal tube, and saw the poor little creature, propelling it’s way through the agar, looking for something to attach itself to. It would find nothing.

“So abused,” Marsha added, quietly, not quite a whisper.

The virus was one for the common cold, and she was tasked with finding a cure. Something that would kill the virus, and all its friends – the ones hanging out a few millimetres away – in one fell swoop. She hadn’t found anything yet, but neither had anyone else. Still, they were meant to try.

“You just want to keep living. And you do it so well,” she said to the virus. “You don’t even really harm people. You come, we get a sniffly nose, and you leave again. Or, I guess, you stay in us, and our immune system keeps you down. But you adapt, and come back. And we spend so much trying to destroy you, when all you want to do is be. You poor little thing.”

“Hey Marsha,” Tanya said, walking in the door.

“Oh, hey Tanya,” Marsha said, looking up.

“Who are you talking to?”

“Oh, just the viruses. Trying to get them to spill their secrets, you know?”

Marsha laughed. “You’re such a kook.”

“Hey, if it works, you’ll be sorry,” Marsha said.

“Naw, if it works, I’ll be happy to not have to suffer through another cold again.”

“Mmm,” Marsha said, before looking back in the microscope. “Poor little virus,” she whispered.

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