Omg! Second chapter! Surprised even me..
Monday mornings bring superstitions. Always, there is a sense of dread that wallows in the pit of her stomach, like a stone lodged firmly, and always, bad things tend to happen on Monday mornings.
She strides down the streets, forces herself to walk naturally (never a bigger paradox), swinging the arms wide, right foot, left foot, right, left, right, left, don't fall over…
No one notices the slight tremble of her feet as she sets them down on the ground, the imperceptible shiver of her hands that never ceases, never ceases, a cold that never leaves blue lips. She tries to keep her head up as she walks, even as her neck screams to look down, look down! in gaudy vermilion hues.
She heads down to the hospital for her morning shift, walks just a bit more quickly past the Yamanka flower shop. Sees Tenten coming down the street and veers sharply into a dark alleyway, holds her breath as the kunoichi passes—partly because of the stench, but mostly because she cannot stop herself.
Shivering all the while; the goose bumps dance up and down her arms with ballerina ease. She tells herself it's because of the cold.
Jaw clenched tight, she strides back out into the street, into the blinding broad daylight that burns her eyes and withers away her cardboard pretense. She imagines the strange stares the villagers give her, the wary looks: who is she?
She wonders the same herself, because she feels like a stranger; caught guiltily in another being's skin, drowning in this foreign thing that covers her soul. She wishes she could rip it off, but remembers that it would only expose her.
She comes to a stop at the hospital, and there the great starchy gray building looms, stains on the apron of its rigidity. It is peaceful and undisturbed; the never-ending expanse of grey that is the walls and the curtain-drawn windows that are the sleeping eyes, fever dreams of the sick.
She smells the smell of antiseptic and sterile white, of deluging insanity in small trickles of light, sloshing messily about. She hears the hum of a janitor as he whistles a tune and jingles the keys on his belt, disregards the world with beautiful nobility.
She slips past the doors, past the nurse and her clipboard, down the hall, along the rooms, through the weaving humming of the janitor and under the flickering florescent lights. And stops.
Quickly, she changes into her uniform; the loose-fitting garments of white and flicks her hair over her shoulder. She checks in at the front and scans the duty schedule, finding that she has been assigned to a man named Speckers.
A deep breath, a rolling of the neck, and then she heads off. She scurries to room 104 and is not ready for what waits.
She opens the door and enters the room. Looks to the bed.
It is barely man. Barely human.
For a moment she stares; and then she cannot look anymore, because it makes her frighteningly sick in the stomach. (Remember, it is barely human, this thing! Barely human—let her scream the lies! What is it?) She looks away for a moment, clutches desperately at the cabinet like it is her only savior, glad the man-thing does not have eyes to see her do so. Clenches her hands, clears her throat, forces the air into her lungs and out, and then:
"Hello, Mr. Speckers."
The form twitches. She looks away from the man as she speaks. "I—I'm going to be your caretaker from now on. I'll be responsible for watching over you, feeding you, washing you, exercising you—"she counts off the duties like fate. "—and anything else needed. If you ever need anything, well—I'll be there."
She keeps her eyes to the ceiling, traces the white plaster patterns, and wishes it would make It go away. It is another nightmare. Today and yesterday are nightmares (probably tomorrow, too, now that she thinks about it) and she is sandwiched in between the laughing demons that yank her hair and pull at her teeth. None of this is real, she thinks. She pinches herself and already knows before she pinches herself that this is very real, and no amount of pinching will change it. The skin is crescented and pink where her nails have squeezed together in hopeless hope.
She risks a glance at the man and quickly turns to the other wall, breathing fast and quick and gut cringing, she tells herself to calm down it's not his fault stupid girl this is your job, your life. You chose it.
A gurgle from the bed where the nightmare lies.
She looks up at the noise and the man-thing's arm is quivering, reaching, doing something horrible it's going to get her, and she can't look at it anymore!
"I'm sorry excuse me I'll be gone just a moment!" and she rushes out of the room and locks herself in the bathroom.
Today is a Monday morning.
-
The door creaks open, a whisper. It is another sweet nothing lavished on another cold no one. She quietly sets her things by the door, feet sliding out of sandals. She sets her keys down on the table just so that there is only the faintest clink of metal on wood; does not understand this feeling of having to preserve the edgy silence, feeding her enemy, gorging the suffocation.
There is a scream boiling inside of her, but her fears are squeezing her lungs tight so that she can't breathe. Oh, no you don't. Screaming is a luxury you cannot afford. Listen instead to the silence of the living dead….
Her eyes squeeze shut and she suddenly pictures Mr. Speckers among the white sheets, a mummy-corpse, quickly crushes the image with a mental fist, her own palms clammy and cold. The air-conditioning in the bathroom had been too cold, too cold. As if someone had known and had purposely set the air-conditioning so that it would blow coolly across her skin, prod her conscience as she huddled in the corner for an eternity.
She bites her lip, and then quickly stops because the taste is still lingering, sticky, even after the eternity during which she had sat on the cold tile floor, shivering. The damned taste! She rushes over to the sink and spits a great wad of sourness and sick pleasure, cold, unfeeling pleasure. The spit wallows in a bubbling puddle, leers. She turns on the faucet and watches it run down the sink with the rest of hissing water, swept along reluctantly; its fun has been ruined.
Afterwards, she returns to the table, and on it lays a small scrap of paper. The scrawl is messy and tight, rushed.
Thanks for the ramen, it was really good. It'll be my treat next time, ne?
Naruto
She would have smiled but fear has gripped her lips, too, and her mouth's muscles are frozen into marionettes of the fears' will—no longer her own. She remembers how only last week she could smile at jokes that weren't really funny and at things that scared her.
Only last week, but a thousand eternities ago.
Um...yeah. Kinda sucky...sorry if I disappointed. ;; Anyways, this story is mainly going to be a sort of experiment of styles and such. I really need a plot-bunny. Desperately. Please bear with me. :D