100 Words: Pick Up

“Jones? Don’t run–”

She couldn’t have, if she tried. All she could do was stare.

And shake.

“Fuck, what the bloody fuck did you do t’yerself?”

She looked up, baleful, but the glare fizzled out as she turned her head and vomited.

“Christ.”

There was still enough in her system that when he picked her up she didn’t stop his heart; she fought weakly, then just went limp, and willed herself to die in his arms.

She didn’t.

Instead, she just passed out, and when she woke later, she hated herself for that failure as much as all the others.

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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