Must be

She woke up, a memory of blood bubbling at her lips, salt in her throat. It felt like seawater in her eyes, up her nose. Everything stung. Everything was knives. Everything was tightening, tightening. “You’re not you,” she whispered, staggering to her feet.


“Oh, sh–”

Pinwheeling, she shifted, skidding, boots slipping, and the loose tile goes off the roof, and so does she, all arms and legs and wild hair, plummeting into the alley, sailing past the fire escape.

She squeezed her eyes shut, reaching her hands out in front of her as though she could arrest that high of a fall with just that.

A millimeter from the ground, she stopped, breath scattering the dust, her braids and curls slapping the ground. She could feel the heat of the sun-baked asphalt radiating against.

And then, she hit, cheek smacking the pavement, bruised and split at once, blood running, eye opening only to wince in pain.

“Must be Monday,” she groaned, and closed her eyes again.

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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