Justine Ward (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
strangletheheart) wrote2012-03-23 08:08 pm
strangletheheart) wrote2012-03-23 08:08 pm
Entry tags:
[fic] Prompt: how frugal is the chariot that bears the human soul?
It’s some time past seven in the morning. Weak morning light filters through the half-drawn curtains, blessing the room with much wanted and needed warmth.
Justine lies curled up on her bed, eyes half-open and unblinking. Her breathing swallow and uneven, her body shivering its way through another cold sweat. She can feel the nausea rising in her stomach, made worse by the half full bucket of festering bile at her bedside. How she keeps throwing up at this point is a mystery to her – the contents of her stomach have long since emptied.
It’s been another bad night. Sometimes the Calling just seeps through unexpectedly and the usual sickness she feels from it and it unleashes an almighty terror upon her.
She can hear whispers in her head: infect, kill, consume, destroy, kill, kill, kill… The demon begging to be let out, urging her to go out amongst the crowds: to infect, to make them all fall sick, to kill them with bloody coughing fits, searing fevers, blisters and boils.
Over the last three years, her body has become a cooking pot for diseases unknown to man. The things it creates have taken a high toll on her. She’s frail and some mornings she wakes up wanting death. Sometimes it’s just too much to keep on living. Body and mind too tired, too fragile to keep her standing.
Turning over, Justine faces another bookshelf. She reads the titles, never quite taking them in. Freud, Tolkien, Dahl, Nietzche, Shakespeare, Dickens. She’s read them all, some of them more than once. Stories and ideas to fill herself with, to expand herself with.
How could someone like her, someone who fills her mind with beautiful words, be resigned to live in this body? Nothing but sickness and silence and days without sleep. Nothing but loneliness and vomit and blood.
Sometimes it makes her cry. She could be so much more; she could be like the things she dreams about, like the characters in stories. Beautiful creations given heart and strength to stand with each day that passes. But instead she’s stuck with this broken body, drowning in disease.
Drawing in a haggard breath, Justine blinks the tears away. She looks to the window, to the light and wills herself to get up.
Today is another day.
Justine lies curled up on her bed, eyes half-open and unblinking. Her breathing swallow and uneven, her body shivering its way through another cold sweat. She can feel the nausea rising in her stomach, made worse by the half full bucket of festering bile at her bedside. How she keeps throwing up at this point is a mystery to her – the contents of her stomach have long since emptied.
It’s been another bad night. Sometimes the Calling just seeps through unexpectedly and the usual sickness she feels from it and it unleashes an almighty terror upon her.
She can hear whispers in her head: infect, kill, consume, destroy, kill, kill, kill… The demon begging to be let out, urging her to go out amongst the crowds: to infect, to make them all fall sick, to kill them with bloody coughing fits, searing fevers, blisters and boils.
Over the last three years, her body has become a cooking pot for diseases unknown to man. The things it creates have taken a high toll on her. She’s frail and some mornings she wakes up wanting death. Sometimes it’s just too much to keep on living. Body and mind too tired, too fragile to keep her standing.
Turning over, Justine faces another bookshelf. She reads the titles, never quite taking them in. Freud, Tolkien, Dahl, Nietzche, Shakespeare, Dickens. She’s read them all, some of them more than once. Stories and ideas to fill herself with, to expand herself with.
How could someone like her, someone who fills her mind with beautiful words, be resigned to live in this body? Nothing but sickness and silence and days without sleep. Nothing but loneliness and vomit and blood.
Sometimes it makes her cry. She could be so much more; she could be like the things she dreams about, like the characters in stories. Beautiful creations given heart and strength to stand with each day that passes. But instead she’s stuck with this broken body, drowning in disease.
Drawing in a haggard breath, Justine blinks the tears away. She looks to the window, to the light and wills herself to get up.
Today is another day.