Shaking hands lit a Djarum black; the crazy-haired girl looked around herself in the dark, tried to get her bearings by the light of a battered Zippo. She inhaled, exhaled, and flicked the cover back over the flame, putting herself back into darkness.

“Okay then, Jones, what did we get ourselves into this time?” she wondered. “We’re not tied up. Headache, check. All my limbs? Check. Naked? Nope. Bleeding? Doesn’t seem like it. Got my bag, got my smokes.” She ran her hands over her body, patting, checking, searching for wounds, for signs, for things that were hers she might have with her. “No bloody fucking mobile you daft fucking bint, Christ,” she sighed, sounding more irritable, less terrified than any young woman might’ve, when faced with the idea she was probably recently kidnapped.

Grumbling, muttering, putting her free hand to her pounding head once she got all the way to her feet, she sounded more like a creaking old man than a young woman of dubious teenage years.

She stared down at her feet in the darkness, frowning. She felt shorter. Weirdly vulnerable. The cement was cold as fuckon her toes. “No boots?” she said to herself. “So… What. I’ve been kidnapped by rogue cobbler elves who…. Wanted to…. Fix my shoes?” A wave of dizziness forced her right back down to her knees. “Fuck,” she breathed, dropping out the cigarette, shuddering as red stars encompassed her vision.

It was then she remembered the car accident, the cabbie, the stroller. She saved a baby. An actual baby. She did.

Then what? She went to cross the alley, on her way back to coffee and biscuits. Some guy asked for directions, and against her better judgment, she was feeling good about herself, and she leaned in and offered.

“And then he had me, and I was stuck,” she said aloud, moving to sit back on her haunches. “And you’re really fucking stuck now, aren’t you? Bloody idiot,” she muttered, shaking her head. She carefully fished the cigarette back from the cement floor and took a long, hard drag, letting the nicotine rush soothe the pounding in her head.

God, Mondays were shit.

About Catastrophe Jones

Wretched word-goblin with enough interests that they're not particularly awesome at any of them. Terrible self-esteem and yet prone to hilarious bouts of hubris. Full of the worst flavors of self-awareness. Owns far too many craft supplies. Will sing to you at the slightest provocation.
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2 Responses to Underground

  1. Trent Lewin says:

    All right, what’s all this about? I need to know more. No shoes. Saved a baby. And yet she seems oddly unfreaked out about it – who is this person, Jones? Tell me more.

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