37/50. black Saturday fiction. everything hurts. (spoiler alert, this is a dark Jillie piece.)

Jillie awoke that morning, stretching off the night before, feeling somewhat euphoric when she realized she had the day off from work.  She stretched her arms over her head, pleased to find that she had the sense to throw on sweats and a t-shirt in the middle of the night.   Though it was soon brought to her attention, that her entire body hurt.  It really hurt.  Every cell in her body was throbbing, no, screaming in pain.

Not again, she sighed.  She imagined her cells having angry, snarled faces.  She bit her lower lip as her left foot spasmed uncontrollably.   She began breathing in deeply like Jayzen showed her.  Away, away, away, she breathed out until the iron rod slowly removed itself from her foot.  She always said to Annie that she needed to be crucified to show her the way.  She chuckled at her pain.  God, that was just a joke.  I wasn’t serious, she implored as she stared at the neon plastic stars on her ceiling.  Please, please give me a pass today, that’s all I’m asking for, a pass.  

She rolled over in bed to her left as gracefully as she could manage amidst the agony to find a shaved head and mole-marred white back staring at her that belonged to a man, a boy, from the looks of him, that she didn’t know.  She traced his back with her eyes, down his hair-less legs, to his cracked heels, counting his moles as her eyes moved, stopping at 33.

What in the hell did I do last night? What am I doing to myself?  She asked herself and then quickly attempted to shrug off her self-hating thoughts and move on.

Today was the day she was supposed to get her lab and MRI results.

“Come on, get up, would you,” she said as she put a hand on the guy’s clammy, oily back.  She shoved him gently, “Move it, man.”  Nothing.  Fabulous, she muttered.  She grabbed the loan sheet crumpled at the bottom of her bed and pulled it up to cover his pale, flaccid body, so she didn’t have to touch him directly again.  The thought turned her stomach upside down and she tried not to vomit as she rose to her knees, breathing quickly.  She collapsed to her hands as the room started to spin around her.

“Get up, and get out of here,” she screamed at him, pounding on his back with her right hand, feeling like a feral cat as her nails dug in to his flesh through the thin sheet.

“Jesus, woman, chill out,” he mumbled rolling out from her claws, slowly to a sitting position, swinging his weathered feet around to the floor and grabbing his jeans at the same time.

“Just get the f*ck out, would you, please.” Jillie started crying.

“Psycho-b*tch, you got it.  You weren’t any good any way.  No loss here,” he replied as he stood up buttoning his jeans, his back still turned to her.  He grabbed his torn red t-shirt from the night table with the word ANARCHEY emblazoned across the back pulling it over his head and made his way for the door grabbing his flip-flops on the way out.

“Have a nice life,” he laughed as he slammed the door to her tear-streaked face.


oooph…this was dark, wasn’t it??!!  Not sure where this surfaced from – and why I’m referring to Jillie in the third person…but it surfaced.  I just see Jillie, as a tortured soul…she and Anya are both tortured, but in different ways…and lots to reconcile.  huh.  must lighten the mood at the doctor’s office!



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