The Weirdest Thing I Have Written Thus Far

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Yes, another Daily Prompt Challenge. I know, there are far more interesting things for me to post, but I don’t have enough time today. So, I’m going to give this a try. And I’m going to write about one of my delusions. Yes, one of those. :p

I’m not sure how I feel about writing about delusions, because I often find that the way I write them makes it sound sort of like a story, rather than a recap or a journal entry. But it’s easier to right that way, because that way, I can at least give myself the illusion that it’s not real, that it’s just a story.

So I’ll attempt to write this scene by scene, backwards from the last thing I remember, to the first thing I was aware of. It’ll be tricky. But I’ll give it a shot.

I nearly cough on the hot soothing syrup, but I manage to force it down. After the cup is drained, I’m half asleep, and as I focus on Daniel’s voice and the sensation of his hand stroking my head, he manages to lull me all the way there.

“C’mon, Cat.” Daniel heaves me onto the bed, and wipes the tears off my face. He holds my head and tips the lemon drink down my throat-how’d he manage to carry it here with me? Or how did I carry it here? Or did I? I don’t even know. “You’re on fire,” he murmurs, and I flinch at the allusion. He quickly inserts “I never meant it that way, I’m sorry.”
“It’s alright,” I croak, dribbling out the Lemsip as I say it.
“It’s not.”
“Why not?” I ask.
He looks at me. “You know.” And he lifts the drink to my lips.

“Jesus Christ,” he murmurs. “You must really be sick!”
“Oh no, I’m just hunky dory!” I groan, as I retch again.
“I’m surprised no one’s come out yet.” Daniel sounds worried. As if they would actually see him. “Wouldn’t they have heard?”
“My family would sleep through the zombie apocalypse,” I murmur. “They’d be dreaming as they got eaten, they wouldn’t-” I retch again.
It’s not till Daniel picks me up that I realised I was crumpled on the floor, crying. There’s vomit on the edge of the seat, and I hurriedly wipe it down, praying no one will know tomorrow. He puts his arms around me, and I’m just wishing to god that he was real.

I just sit on the floor, watching him make Lemsip. Looking back, it might’ve been me making it, or maybe it was never made. But my stomach hurts like hell, and I tell him so.
“Panadol,” he says instantly, and gets a pill from the cabinet, along with a cup of water. It could’ve been real, it may not have been. But I feel everything; the pill and the cool water going down my throat, and the nausea that comes after.
I run to the powder room, and start retching.

The light in the kitchen is too bright, and I flinch from it. Daniel doesn’t even notice. “For headaches and flu, we need….” he rummages through the cupboard, as if not seeing me.
I watch him move quickly, in a sort of trance. I suppose that’s the best way to describe my state of mind; I was somewhat aware of everything, but unable to do anything.
He looks over his shoulder to see me, and something flashes across his face. Guilt? Sadness? Anxiety? Couldn’t say. He whips his head around and goes back to making me my brew.

“Can you walk on your own?” he whispers.
I nod, and take steps toward the kitchen. It’s freezing, ice cold, and I’m almost praying for the return of my furnace.
He goes ahead of me, and opens a cabinet, and starts searching it. I huddle up in a corner, and I feel as though I’m slipping again, until he turns on the light.

Immediately, I fall flat on my carpet, unwilling to move. “Get up,” he tells me, lifting me up. It’s then that I swing at him, hitting him square in the face. He’s shocked, and there’s a moment where I’m frightened, and I wait for him to hit me back, hurt me worse than I’ve hurt him. But he doesn’t.
“Why?” I remember asking.
He looks at me strangely. “Because you’ve had enough.”

I’m shaking. Shaking and crying and in pain. My stomach is throbbing, and my head is worse. I try to fight Daniel off me, but he’s stronger, and he holds me down until I stop fighting. I cannot comprehend the words he murmurs, but they’re somewhat soothing, even though I feel that his presence should be anything but soothing. He’s one of them, but he’s not.
He tries to lull me back to sleep, but I’m in too much pain. It’s not till I start coughing and spluttering that he realises I need medicine.
“Flu,” he says flatly, before pulling me out of bed.

“No!”
“It’s nearly done.”
“Let me go!”
“It’s too late for that.”
“I’ve done nothing!”
“Oh, we know, my dear, we know.”

My teeth cut through the mans hand, and when he howled, I took off. They could not catch me. High, low, I flew from them. But she could not. And once it was done, I couldn’t either.
And then they caught me.
As the blade entered my belly, I willed myself not to cry out. It doesn’t kill me though, even though I wish that it did. There’s murmuring, murmuring I cannot bear to hear. Next thing I knew, I was hit over the head, and everything’s black.
When I wake up, I pray that I’m dead, or at least anywhere but here.

I think the flu was making things worse for me. Every night I was having bad dreams, and I woke up feeling congested and horrible. I think that was probably the worst one, the first night I had it.

School’s in three minutes, I’d better get going. I had modelling last night as well, so I’ll let you know how that goes (when there’s Internet again.)

Mad Cat

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