This is part four in a series. The correct order is Letters, Autobiography, Futile, Worst Day (that's this), Health, Tears, [the still unnamed, unwritten part seven]. It's possible to read this as a standalone, but it will make the most sense if you read them in order.
Today was not a good day.
When she wakes up, her head is pounding; it feels as though one of those scary, if not mildly amusing, new age metal bands has decided to have a concert in her cranium.
She sits up slowly, intending to head to the kitchen to find Tylenol or aspirin or morphine. Yeah, morphine.
However, even moving at snail speed seemed to be too much for the marching band in her head. It also seemed to bring about a wave a nausea.
Making her way to the bathroom in record time, emptied her stomach into the toilet.
"Well don't you look pretty," Jess said sarcastically when Rory entered the kitchen several minutes later. It appeared he'd just arrived with a bag of donuts and two coffees set out on the table, as though waiting just for her.
She glared at him and growled. She sat down at one of the bar stools and slid one of the donuts toward her. She brought it to her mouth, but the moment it was within scent range, she nearly regurgitated her stomach contents once more. How there was anything left to throw up, save her stomach itself, she didn't know.
"You look a little nauseous," Jess commented.
"I wonder why," she mutters sarcastically.
"Maybe you should see a doctor," he suggested.
"I've seen a dozen doctor's Jess. They've all said the same thing. I only have a few months left, and I'll get sicker and sicker by the minute."
"But you shouldn't be this bad yet. You said so yourself last week."
"What does it matter?" she asked, grabbing a green apple from the basket of fruit on the counter. "I'm going to die, what does it matter when?"
"Rory…" he began, then gave her a funny look as she bit into the apple.
"What?" she asked, crunching loudly. Then she stopped chewed abruptly as another wave of nausea hit. She dropped the apple back onto the counter and rushed to the bathroom.
Jess finished eating the last two bites of his bagel before following her into the bathroom, his coffee in hand. This had become almost routine since he'd joined her in Vancouver, though they were now somewhere in California. Before she died, Rory just wanted to see places. She'd been to exotic places all around the world, but she just wanted to see the simple places, the places that reminded her of home.
And of course, Jess would follow her.
He knew that she was sick, really sick. But it wasn't until recently that it became blatantly apparent just how sick she was becoming.
He found her wrapped around the toilet, her face resting on the bowl, just in case anything else decided to find its way back up.
"You okay?" he asked, handing her a glass of water to rinse the taste of bile from her mouth.
She mumbled something incoherent, then took a sip from the glass.
"I'm fine," she finally says, but he doesn't believe her.
"Rory, I know you don't see the point in going to another doctor, but you really should. I get that you're getting worse, but not like this. Maybe something else is wrong."
Rory just stared into the wall, clearing pondering something. The look on her face change from curiosity, to confusion, to horror, to … how could there possibly be anything left in her stomach?
When she finally stopped vomiting, she took another sip of water.
"I think I'll see that doctor now," she mutters.
Jess isn't sure what changed her mind, but he wasn't going to argue when he was getting his way.