Jean Watson had returned from the war a broken woman.
She often was plagued by nightmares in the night that reduced her to a quivering, sobbing wreck. This night was no exception. She didn't just have these horrible flashbacks of the war, she was chased by her life now. She was alone. She had nobody. Everyday was monotonous. If she died now, there'd be two people at her funeral. Her brother Harry and his boyfriend Clarence. She'd explained that to her therapist, he was a nice man, but therapy wasn't for her. She was fine. She'd manage. Her leg hurt, it wasn't because of memories that she was limping, it was because of pain.
Nothing happened to her. Well, that was what she thought. She was walking home. (Home was a funny word, she didn't consider where she lived her home she considered it a place it was like purgatory, between two extremes, the hell of Afghanistan and the happiness she was pining for) When she heard her name shouted after her.
"Jean! Jean Watson!" She froze, and turned slowly, she was surprised and happy to see it was one of her older friends from the army Michelle Stamford. They bought coffee and sipped it together. They watched the life of London hum by.
"I heard you were abroad somewhere, getting shot at, what happened?" Michelle asked.
"I got shot." Jean replied. She realised it was a little curt, but she hated people being so stupid about it. It wasn't something she wanted to discuss. She hated that part of her life and wanted to close it. She tried to patch the situation up, "Are you still at Bart's then?"
"Teaching now, yeah." Michelle laughed "Bright young things like we used to be. God I hate them." She and Jean laughed together, remembering the days they used to race around. "What about you, just staying in town while you get yourself sorted?"
Jean thought that Michelle was joking. "I can't afford London on an army pension." She replied, it was true, and a shame really. She liked London, the amount of people made her feel like she couldn't be the only messed up one.
"Ah, you couldn't bear to be anywhere else. That's not the Jean Watson I know."
"Yeah I'm not that Jean Watson." Jean mused. She wasn't. So much had happened to her. She was a totally different person. She didn't like looking in the mirror and not recognising the person there. She had permanent bags under her eyes and her straight, once shiny, hair was starting to fade grey.
"Couldn't Harry help?" Michelle snapped Jean out of her reverie.
"Yeah, like that's gonna happen." She scoffed. Her brother was too concerned about his own life. They didn't get on, never had.
"I don't know. You could get a flat share or something." Michelle smiled. This idea was even more ridiculous than the last idea.
"C'mon. Who'd want me for a flatmate." She replied. It was true, who'd want a thirty-something-year-old suffering from possible PTSD who didn't sleep. Jean noticed Michelle was pulling a face at her. Her eyes were crinkled in the corners and she had a broad smile. "What?"
"Well you're the second person to say that to me today." She laughed a sort of what-are-the-odds? laugh.
"Who's the first?" Jean said intrigued. She could surely live with someone as worse as her. They could share something. Share being outcasts. Detached. She liked the idea of her. It confirmed her ideas about London, so many people…there must be one as messed up as me.