but I was painting the whole cottage teal. There was no one to scrunch their nose up at it or shake their head. I could hot pink and black zebra stripe this thing and no one would care.
I kept a sob from leaving my throat.
No one would care.
No one.
Productiveness over. Now it was time to wallow.
Chapter 16
Her
First I was tired. I couldn’t finish my jog that morning. Bagheera kept whining and circling back to nudge his wet nose in my hand but my feet grew heavier and I quickly realized even walking made me achy.
I made it home and flopped onto my mattress. I guzzled some water, rolled over, and went to sleep.
The cramps woke me a few hours later. I squeezed my abdomen and let out a grunting cry but sitting up made me woozy. I turned on my mattress, scrunching my knees to my chest, splaying them back out, bucking my hips. I tried to find any position that would alleviate the pain but none did and I resorted to curling up on my side and bearing it with labored breathing.
This must be like childbirth , I kept thinking but what a joke of nature. Nothing this hellish should produce something you want to kiss and cuddle and love forever. This kind of pain should spawn ugly, evil, live-under-the-bed-and-rot kind of monsters.
The cramps made way to pure nausea. I vomited sporadically until it was less vomit and more of a dry heaving. I tried to flick back over what I ate. I was always careful and checking cans for bulging or smells. Perhaps it was as simple as being sick. I hadn’t been sick since The Before. There was no one to play tag with on viruses or bacteria. No sneezes in crowded rooms or coughs in a tight space or food service workers that didn’t wash their hands.
On day three, I stopped moving altogether. My water supply was running low. I threw up most of what I ingested. My lips bled from dry cracks. My throat was raw and scratchy from all the acid coming back up. Even scarier, my left eye was drooping so much it was hard to see out of it.
My dogs paced nervously around me. When the animals were nervous, it was bad. They could sense things beyond what normal people could. They could sense death. In the early days, they were vital in letting me know which houses to explore and which to pass on.
Pacing dogs. Okay. I needed to move. I needed to move or I wasn’t going to live.
The Great Move (I named it such because it was so monumental it needed a name) took all day and into the night. Little by little, I used what strength was left in my arms to scooch myself across the floor. When I got to the front door, I scooted over the pebbles that lined the walk to the cottage. Then I scooted over the concrete parking lot.
During all this, when my arms became rubbery tired, I would like flat on my back and bake in the sun like a chicken leg on the grill. I would think about quitting and just laying here, baking to death, until I was done ( ding! ) and perfectly roasted and tender for whatever animal was coming for dinner.
Then I’d quit wallowing, pick up my arms, and scoot some more. My legs felt like flopping jelly. The couple of times I asked for their help, they scared me with how useless they were. My back was a crosshatch of scratches from the various surfaces I raked my body over.
Night came and the air cooled. Instead of baking, I was shivering. I was thirsty. I was exhausted. I was close to crying for the second time since The Sweep. My muscles cursed me and I gritted my teeth. I was now using my elbows as leverage and they were raw and bloodied.
My target came into view. The house was the two story brick home that sat at the front of the street on Windsong. I’d been there many times before and had already dug through her story. An older woman lived there, an empty nester if the pictures of the developing humans that spanned the wall down the stairwell was any indication. A boy and a girl and they both proudly displayed diplomas at the end of the progression with their
I kept a sob from leaving my throat.
No one would care.
No one.
Productiveness over. Now it was time to wallow.
Chapter 16
Her
First I was tired. I couldn’t finish my jog that morning. Bagheera kept whining and circling back to nudge his wet nose in my hand but my feet grew heavier and I quickly realized even walking made me achy.
I made it home and flopped onto my mattress. I guzzled some water, rolled over, and went to sleep.
The cramps woke me a few hours later. I squeezed my abdomen and let out a grunting cry but sitting up made me woozy. I turned on my mattress, scrunching my knees to my chest, splaying them back out, bucking my hips. I tried to find any position that would alleviate the pain but none did and I resorted to curling up on my side and bearing it with labored breathing.
This must be like childbirth , I kept thinking but what a joke of nature. Nothing this hellish should produce something you want to kiss and cuddle and love forever. This kind of pain should spawn ugly, evil, live-under-the-bed-and-rot kind of monsters.
The cramps made way to pure nausea. I vomited sporadically until it was less vomit and more of a dry heaving. I tried to flick back over what I ate. I was always careful and checking cans for bulging or smells. Perhaps it was as simple as being sick. I hadn’t been sick since The Before. There was no one to play tag with on viruses or bacteria. No sneezes in crowded rooms or coughs in a tight space or food service workers that didn’t wash their hands.
On day three, I stopped moving altogether. My water supply was running low. I threw up most of what I ingested. My lips bled from dry cracks. My throat was raw and scratchy from all the acid coming back up. Even scarier, my left eye was drooping so much it was hard to see out of it.
My dogs paced nervously around me. When the animals were nervous, it was bad. They could sense things beyond what normal people could. They could sense death. In the early days, they were vital in letting me know which houses to explore and which to pass on.
Pacing dogs. Okay. I needed to move. I needed to move or I wasn’t going to live.
The Great Move (I named it such because it was so monumental it needed a name) took all day and into the night. Little by little, I used what strength was left in my arms to scooch myself across the floor. When I got to the front door, I scooted over the pebbles that lined the walk to the cottage. Then I scooted over the concrete parking lot.
During all this, when my arms became rubbery tired, I would like flat on my back and bake in the sun like a chicken leg on the grill. I would think about quitting and just laying here, baking to death, until I was done ( ding! ) and perfectly roasted and tender for whatever animal was coming for dinner.
Then I’d quit wallowing, pick up my arms, and scoot some more. My legs felt like flopping jelly. The couple of times I asked for their help, they scared me with how useless they were. My back was a crosshatch of scratches from the various surfaces I raked my body over.
Night came and the air cooled. Instead of baking, I was shivering. I was thirsty. I was exhausted. I was close to crying for the second time since The Sweep. My muscles cursed me and I gritted my teeth. I was now using my elbows as leverage and they were raw and bloodied.
My target came into view. The house was the two story brick home that sat at the front of the street on Windsong. I’d been there many times before and had already dug through her story. An older woman lived there, an empty nester if the pictures of the developing humans that spanned the wall down the stairwell was any indication. A boy and a girl and they both proudly displayed diplomas at the end of the progression with their
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