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The room smelt of sick. To touch, to glance, waveringly in any direction is nauseating. From the cold, burnt heater to the one closed window, it's as if the bare walls can soak up the very essence of disease. Disease, from the man lying naked on the mattress at the centre of the room. The half-cut moon spills in accusingly, exposing each shaky drop of sweat escaping down clammy, tretcherous skin. Alabaster. Dry, parted lips that won't drink- loose rasping breaths from a chest that won't sustain the burden of a beating heart. His unknowing hands try desperately to close on a filthy blanket. All control is lost. She- filled with weary desp