A/N. I'm submitting this before I have a chance to change my mind. It's just as short as the last one, but I am hoping to bring my wordcount up somewhat by the next chapter. Thank you very much to everyone that has reviewed or added this to their story alerts. It really means a lot, and I appreciate any advice you guys have to offer.
Disclaimer. I do not own Flight 29 Down or its characters, nor do I own any of the songs recommended. I am not profiting from either in any way.
Song. Hopeless, by Train.
Chapter Two: Taste.
The taste of salt lingers in her mouth, and Taylor wakes with a jolt, head pounding as she sits up, disoriented. For the span of a heartbeat, such an achingly short time, she believes she hasn't yet gone home; the past week was just a horribly extended dream.
When she touches her face, though, her fingers come away sticky, and something inside of her seems to sever, leaving a dull, throbbing, ugly wound, as remembrance strikes her. She closes her eyes, knowing they are dry and red, and forces herself to swallow the bile that has risen in her throat. The tang remains persistently, paying no mind to her efforts, and it suddenly makes her feel ill.
Somehow, Taylor manages to find the bathroom. She stumbles, dizzily gripping the counter for support, and blessedly makes it as far as the toilet before she falls to her knees.
Even as she presses her palms against her legs, digging her nails into her thighs through the fabric of her pyjama pants, and leans forward, she knows that it won't help. She hasn't been able to eat and can't keep anything she swallows down; there isn't anything left to get rid of. After a month-long diet of flavourless fruit and fish, everything else taste revolting and too calorific.
As she retches, gagging without result, someone settles behind her. One of the maids coos quietly, gathering Taylor's hair from her face, and waits.
It isn't long before Taylor finally sits back, pressing her legs up against her chest, and leans sideways against the bathtub. She wraps her arms around herself, pressing her chin to her knees to keep it from quivering, and tastes salty tears once again as the maid holds her. Somehow, the familiarity of the situation only makes her feel worse.
A/N 2. I've actually never written anything like this before, not really, at least. I'm not sure how believable it is, but I know that if I don't submit it now, I'm going to keep rewriting it for another week. Also, the rating was bumped up to 'teen', just in case.
As always: comments are appreciated, flames are accepted, and constructive criticism is absolutely adored.
