Work Text:
As soon as Jon shuffles out of the room, Georgie lets the breezeblock that has settled in her gut drag her to the floor. She’s planning to sit at first, but that’s not far enough down to relieve the pressure. Lying down isn’t far enough either. She would have to sink further, down through the floorboards, the foundations, deep into the earth for any relief. It’s as if her body knows it’s not meant to be moving, so anything other than resting still as death tugs against her with wrongness.
This will pass. It always has before. Then of course there’s the nagging thought that maybe this time it won’t.
She told Jon she would do the washing up. But doing something so trivial seems pointless, since she’s essentially already dead. And even if she wasn't dead, she would still have to do it again tomorrow, and the next day, and on, and on, until she truly was deceased. So, she lays there for a while longer. Until there’s distant aching in the places her body rests against the hardwood floor. Until it’s decidedly dark outside and in, only a trickle of light from the streetlamp illuminating the room.
A “mrrp?” sounds in her ear, giving her just enough warning before 12 pounds of cat lands on her stomach. The Admiral cuddles up to the breezeblock like it’s not even there. A little sandpapery tongue begins to scratch at her hand. She focuses on the sensation until finally, she’s able to move a finger. Then a hand. She moves the hand away from The Admiral’s tongue to fish her mobile out of her pocket.
20:46, says the screen.
She opens the phone app and swipes to recent calls. The six most recent entries are missed calls to Jon. The seventh is the takeaway down the road. She taps the eighth most recent to redial.
It rings three and a half times before Melanie answers.
“Hey, Georgie.”
“Melanie. Hi.” She sounds rough, even to her own ears.
“What’s…are you…is everything okay?”
“Just a rough day. I’ll be ok.”
“Did you want to…erm…talk about it?”
“I…I’m only up for listening right now, if I'm being honest.”
She’s not down to monosyllables yet but she will be soon if she doesn’t conserve energy. And she still has to somehow make it from the floor to her room before Jon wakes up in a number of hours.
“Oh…erm,” says Melanie. “I could tell you about my day?”
“Please.”
“Well, ok. Erm…so. Work was pretty shit. No more than usual but details on that probably wouldn’t improve your mood. The second half of the day though, I just didn’t work and watched a documentary about sound design. Maybe you’ll think that’s cool ‘cause of, like, podcast stuff?”
She pauses, waiting for an answer, and when she doesn’t get one, forges on anyway. Bless her.
“So yeah, did you know they use fake ice in movies? Real ice gets in the way of other sound work with the clinking. There’s all sorts of trick products like that…”
Melanie has a nice voice. Listening feels like sitting in front of a fire after a long winter walk, the warmth bleeding into the surface of Georgie’s skin slowly, letting her cramped muscles finally relax.
“Georgie?” asks Melanie, eventually.
“Mm-hmm.”
She chuckles. “For a second I was sure I put you to sleep.”
“Mm-mm.”
“Look, do you…can I–ah, nevermind,” Melanie says. “I have to go, but...could you just...promise me you'll be alright tonight?"
“Mm-hmm.”
"Like out loud? Just, like, otherwise I'll have to storm over there to check on you and nobody wants that."
Georgie wouldn't mind that, actually, but she can't figure out how to say so, so instead says, "Promise."
“Good. Right, then. Ok…erm…well, bye. Goodnight. Bye.”
Click.
The breezeblock is gone and without its certainty Georgie is empty, without direction.
She stands too easily and drifts through her evening routine feeling untethered.
Tomorrow Georgie might do the washing up. Then she might do it the next day. And the next.
She might try to make sure Jon is ok, again. She might feed The Admiral something nicer than a few handfuls of dry kibble on the kitchen floor.
She might apologize to Melanie for that conversation, if it can even be called a conversation. She might ask Melanie out. Maybe.
Not tonight, but tomorrow…tomorrow, who knows? Anything could happen, because tonight she will sleep above the dirt.