Nothing Left to Say

I looked over at her. "Maybe you should take a break."

I shrugged a little.

I looked at her. She honestly looked... near death. She looked beyond exhausted and shaky. "Get some sleep."

“I don’t need to sleep I need to fix this.”

"You're going to die long before that, ma'am," I muttered before turning away.

“Oh well, I deserve it.”

I stopped before turning to face her. "What did you say?"

“Nothing.” I quickly went back to what I was doing.

"No, you said something, and, quite frankly, I think I understand you a little more." I turned around to face her.

“I need to get back to work.”

I didn't move. "You don't think your life is worth living because you don't have anything to live for," I said. "Everyone you loved died and you've been in this house for so you've buried yourself in your work thinking that's the answer, but it's not, is it? You've given yourself a purpose to continue living, but you've neglected everything else, so it's really not living anymore. You're just surviving, like me."

“I’m cleaning up a mess. That’s all.”

"Yeah, right."

“What?”

I didn't say anything, I just walked out of the room.

I kept working.

I walked downstairs to the laundry room.

I sighed softly.

I sat against the dryer, my arms resting against my knees. I was trying to think about what her problem was.

I had to be careful so I didn’t infect myself.

I couldn't really think of anything or anyway to help her by the time the washer was one. I switched it to the dryer and put in another load.

I tested the potential cure I had.

I walked back upstairs, to the kitchen. I started cleaning up there.

I kept helping.

((What does that mean? She was testing a possible cure.))