Feb 21, 2013

Chapter 4 Part 2

Finally! I'm feeling better enough that I can work on my writing and I'm coming back with a vengeance. I have four projects in the works now. That doesn't mean I've forgotten about MISS LONELYHEARTS, quite the contrary. I'll be working extra hard to get this finished! As always, a compiled version is available on my blog.

“I don’t see any wontons,” Greta said, sifting through the food. Jack reached in to the bag nonchalantly and pulled out a styrofoam box. “Oh, thanks.” Chewing was the only sound. They sat with their feet flat on the floor, staring at a black television. No one could be bothered to turn it on or to make conversation. It was one of those times where they were perfectly content just eating in silence. It was mesmerizing.

“What was it about?”

“What?” Jack’s voice snapped Greta out of her daze.

“The news. What did it say?”

“Oh,” Greta thought for a moment, chewing. She was still a little stupefied.  “The psychosomia isn’t confined to Africa anymore. They’re saying maybe it isn’t mental. I guess people in England are presenting symptoms as well.

“Sounds like a conspiracy,” Jack mused. “Maybe it’s mad cow.” He laughed, turning on the TV.

Greta shrugged, examining her wonton. “If it really was a conspiracy, though, like if some big all seeing eye was pulling the strings on the apocalypse, I’d be screwed.”

Jack raised an eyebrow. “You’ve been reading Lord of the Ring’s again. Or watching. Both, most likely.”

“Seriously! I take so many pills and have so many issues that come D-Day I won’t be standing amidst the rubble, I’ll have been patiently standing in line at the desolate pharmacy long enough for a zombie to eat me.” Greta shrugged, dipping a wonton in orange sauce.

“Hey,” Jack said, placing his hand on Greta’s knee. She raised her eyes to his. They were black and serious. Placing the wanton down, she listened. Her heart was pounding, ready to burst from her chest. “I won’t let you get eaten by a zombie.” Greta scoffed and smacked his hand from her knee. Jack laughed and reached for the flat noodles.

“It won’t be so funny when I’m zombie chow.”

“Might be, depends on the flavor,” Jack said, taking a bite of his flat noodles. That was infuriating. That was so infuriating. The way he ate those noodles. Shoving them in to his maw like a garbage disposal. Chomp. Chomp. Chomp. Greta felt so hot. Her skin felt foreign. Her body was alien. She didn’t feel herself. Who was this person in her body? Who was the man eating on her couch? She could see him as though through a mile of fog. It was maddening and frightening. He needed to be stopped. She needed to be stopped.

Greta reached for something to end it. The closest thing was a flimsy, plastic butter knife. What was this case covering her body? She was in a thick egg sack. She would cut herself out and then be able to get rid of the thing on her couch. Furiously she started sawing in to the thick, foreign casing covering her body. It was too thick. She sawed harder. Red goop seeped from her. What was happening? She could feel her mind slipping away like headlights in a fog.

Something grabbed her, or grabbed the thick sausage case. She could almost feel it. It was the thing that sat next to her. Greta stabbed it with the butter knife. She felt like a toy in a kinder surprise. Was she being shook?

“Greta!” She could feel her skin again. It hurt. “Greta!”

“Jack?” Her arm was bleeding and Jack was shaking her. “What are you doing?” Greta pushed Jack off.

“You attacked me with a butter knife.” Greta fingered her open wound. It was ugly and serrated. Did she do that? It would have taken a lot of work to cut herself with a butter knife. And her skin wasn’t just cut. It was gashed and bleeding. Greta frowned.

She stood up quickly and ran to the bathroom. The light was too bright and the mirror too clean. As she leaned over the sink, blood drained down her arm forming small rivers over the porcelain white sink. Why had she done that?


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