It’s a Nameless Malady

‘I think she’s calling again. Gotta go… Babe, you know i love you, right?’

She wasn’t so sure anymore.

Breathing came to her in waves; she wondered for a moment if he could hear it. She felt her insides sink into some unnamed, untamed bodily black hole, gripping the cordless phone harder till
her fingers were a bloodless white.
A scowl contorted her expressions after she hung up.

Love?

Lying motionless on the cold granite floor, her thoughts were just as erratic as her respiratory system was. She hoped no one had been listening in… you could never tell.

Kicking gravel was a good way to vent negative responses rendered inexpressible as an indirect result of hormones surging through your bloodstream. Meg felt like a lab rat.

She sneaked into the movie hall, praying she did not bump into anyone she knew and then… found him. A flutter of the heart set her ablaze; it had been so long since they’d gone out without Alice. He held his hand out for her as she seated herself. The movie was probably trash. Three seconds later, the movie was DEFINITELY trash, but who cared?

She stared at her call phone. The cell phone defiantly stared back. It went back and forth till she figured this was some serious family issue being discussed, and honestly, she was a blink away from passing out. Two hours later, something buzzed under her sweaty neck incessantly. The living room was dark, so any flashes of light would disco across the hall, proclaiming she was wide awake. Or at least someone was. Didn’t want that happening.

‘What douche turns off the fan when I’m sleeping?!’

She could go chop chop on whichever one it was.

Leaden eyes, they did not seem to open, not even at the summon of the strongest sleepy will she could muster. Him? Good lord. She swacked her phone out and saw a text message advertising for a mattress company.

You guys appreciate the irony, eh? She thought. She might’ve even said it. The exhaustion was beginning to grow on her.

The bell screamed for everyone to stop writing. Megan closed her eyes and inhaled till she couldn’t. As she let go, she heard papers rustling in a hurry to leap off desks, only to saunter on to another one. Long after her last examination had ended, she was at unease, elbows propped up on the desk, restless leg-jiggling and a raging bull of a brain.

‘McLauren, staying the night, are you?’

Her head popped up seamlessly. Marionette, she thought.

She looked at the invigilator. Her glasses might be the only thing she’ll ever like about her. She trudged her way out as both pairs of eyes exchanged flashes of lightning.

‘I take it you’re not getting any?’ Megan McLauren firmly planted her tongue in cheek as she walked past the woman. How she wished someone buried her collection of brooches in a hailstorm.

No one would answer her.

She stood in a room full of people who, sitting in knit garden chairs in tweed suits and floral maxis, had no mouth. The sight left her nauseated. She began to step back with a question forming on her face.

Why?

No one spoke. A balding man with round horn-rimmed spectacles snapped his attention towards the door, breaking the flow of wordless laughs and banter amongst the wordless people. She could feel someone erasing the chalk off her blackboard.

Wetness skirted her toes; a short while later, she became aware of inky water  swirling and swishing across the cold granite floor, threatening to knock over all semblance of balance that remained in what she saw, and that pricey vase from Aunt Grace.

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