100 Words: Clean Up

He hovered more, when she stopped talking. He stayed close, eyes narrowed in concern while she lay in a sweating heap on the couch, teeth chattering.

Huge, dark eyes stared off at nothing; when they began to focus, he would dart over, roll her to the side, let her vomit. He’d clean it up, bring the bowl back, set it near her, waiting for the next time she’d surface.

“Could just let me die,” she rasped, staring at him.

This was different than the anger. Instead of silence or snark, he laid a hand on her shoulder, warm and steady.

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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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