It had been raining, I was sure of it. A downpour ripping its way from the mottled, grey sky outside of the muggy prison. Even by my senior year, I remember, they had been far too stingy to splurge on air conditioning.

The air was thick with heat and the suffocating vapor that thickly coated our lungs with every intake of breath. No matter how lightly you dressed, how thin your camisole, or how well the color of your shorts reflected away the sheer light of the sun, everyone was coated in sweat. Droplets of perspiration dressed the backs of our necks, our hairlines, drenched those of us less lucky and seeped into our clothes.

Every hall and every classroom was adorned with the same visions of cracking and peeling paint, occasionally varying in color and degree or pathetic appearance. Ultimately, however, it was all the same, the oppressive temperature begging us to move laggardly. Any attempts to step quicker, even to a normal pace, left anyone heaving and rasping for breath.

It was more a jail than a school.

I'd been leaning against a line of tan lockers only to jerk forward after the passage of a few seconds, peeling my tank top away from my back in disgusted frustration. The cotton skirts I'd taken to wearing that year were comfortable enough, swishing airily around my thighs. No matter what skirt I selected however, I found myself eager to return home and peel the sticking fabric from my slick skin as well as, on occasion, wash away the stench worn in to the underarms.

The rest of the residing students had already scurried about me, rushing painfully slowly to the freedom on the other side of the double doors -- no matter how very wet and thunderous. I, on the other hand, had yet to endure this prison for some while longer as I waited impatiently for my boyfriend.

I held an ice pack filched from my lunch to the back of my neck and closed my eyes in a desperate attempt to relax despite the weather as I waited. He always took at least ten minutes after the final bell for reasons beyond my grasp. He'd mentioned talking to one of his teachers and he always arrived with his guitar in hand, but I'd never truly discovered his route.

I was pacing, at points. When I was smart enough not to lean against the dingy lockers, that is. Wondering just what I was supposed to say, his mother having had died the day before. What I was supposed to do. I always seemed to be wondering over the right thing to say.

"Ugh," I'd groaned, pounding my head against the reverberating lockers in frustration, "it shouldn't be this hard."

And it shouldn't have. I shouldn't always have had to fret over my words.

"But his mind's such a mess," I moaned into a shaking lock, raking back the tumbling waves of my strawberry blonde hair and shivering as my ice pack slipped down my shirt. I squirmed at the contact, writhing and shaking myself into a fit of lost breath in the muggy calaboose as the pack slid out above my skirt.

"What," I gasped, "am I doing to myself?" I heaved a sigh, leaning my forehead against the nearest locker, my hand resting against it as well but sliding as it grew clammy.

"Why do I do this?" I'd muttered, imploring myself, my flailing mind.

Why did I do it? I could never understand him, anyhow. Or any of them, for that matter.

So I left.

-

-

-

Jerkily, groggy from my reverie, I winced at the pinching feeling enclosing on my stomach, a forcible pressure curling into my organs. I'd rested my head at some point on one of the chains holding me up as I creaked back and forth on the dingy swing-set behind my apartment complex. It was comforting, the soft squeaking of the aged metal hinges, though the rust rubbed deep into my pale hair. The chain wasn't very comfortable at all, really, just comforting. Lulling, and after a while enough to ignore the strain in my neck.

The growing pain in my midsection, however, brought a gasp to my mouth, strangled at my lips. Immediately, my arm flew to encircle my midriff as well, applying pressure as I muffled another gasp and stumbled forward, abandoning my perch.

My legs felt weak beneath my weight, unsteady after having sat down for so long, my right foot tingling with sleep and causing me to trip over myself. I was rather certain my upper thighs were marked up from the swing as well, the sweat from the seat having soaked my pants at least half through and rubbing uncomfortably against my skin. Still, I stumbled forward, my clumsy feet kicking up clouds of dirt.

Slowly, I'll admit, I progressed. I was barely complacent walking. The pain caused me to wince and forcibly slowed what would preferably be a determined run with fair speed. It was still a race though, however hindered, and I had to get there first. I had to reach my flat, that ceramic bowl.

There was a cool breeze on the back of my neck, rustling the leaves scattered about the lot and crunching underfoot as I stumbled towards the building. A nice breeze, sweeping away some of the nervous sweat gathering... Gracious, pushing me onwards.

But the ground seemed to slip away from my feet in my messy haste. My eyes were playing tricks on me, mind forgetting the ground before me, misplacing it, overstepping it. I was tumbling, tripping, and the feeling was growing.

I bit out a string of choice expletives as my foot collided with a rock I'd not seen, sending me toppling into the building that I had somehow reached amid my cursing and flailing. My shoulder scraped against the bricks' jagged texture and I let out another shrill peal of pain before I could clamp my lips shut.

"Ow," I moaned slowly as I pulled away from the offending wall. I glared viciously at the minute specks of my blood now decorating the structure and raised my foot blindly to kick out at the object, inanimate though it was, before I found myself grabbing for my stomach again -- leaning against the offending bricks for support.

I attempted to stumble around the corner and continue my voyage to the wonders of my bathroom, but stopped almost immediately at the pain emanating from my midriff. I was saved from the torturous prospect of having to discover a solution however, as I felt the acid burning a pathway up my esophagus and instantly bent my head down to admit an exit. Leaning a hand against the rough surface of my apartment complex, I was left with no choice but to surrender my guts and stomach acids behind the crevasses of the building in which I lived, before a lot for children to play in.

It tore at the lining of my throat, a snake biting and ripping away wheresoever he deemed worthy. A fire, scorching and burning away, flaring at the edges. Acid not of stomach but of torture, and it kept coming up just when I was sure there could be no more. When my stomach was sure to be emptied, when it was simply acid now. And I was wincing, heaving in its leave, warm liquid streaming from my eyes for reasons unknown even to me.

But it was there, before me, glaring up at me. Bile.

The force wracked my body on mere whim, tearing out my insides and stowing them anew before me, wretched and rotting. And I could only cry, a helpless rag, bitterly weak against even myself, left heaving against a brick wall.

And then when it did finally end, all I could do was spit savagely to rid my mouth of the remnants of the foul taste.

-

-

-

I felt warm, feverish... weak. The edges of my face felt oily and damp with perspiration that leaked into my hair. My breath, I could tell without even opening my eyes, was low and hot. Most aggravating though, was how far I'd strained my muscles and yet I couldn't quite find the strength to lift my legs. Not to bend a knee or twitch a foot. I was helpless, for all that mattered to me.

But was it even weakness? Or was it simply sloth?

Had I become some sort of apathetic being? Was that it? That would be worse, much worse. Or would it though? How could I decide that? Although, if I were feverish, weak, at least then it wouldn't be out of choice. Less pathetic...

Oh, but was I actually debating this?

Then again, to go out by choice is powerful.

By sloth, though? It sounds like a child's fuss, refusing to go to school. Against a vegetable.

A fever, though? To die by fever? Alone, don't forget. Who could want that?

Crap, I needed to stop this.

Everything was dark, though. There was nothing to serve as a sufficient distraction. I couldn't even honestly place where I was, if asked. No noises resounded or approached and nothing seemed to move. Or, if it did, I couldn't see it in the darkness.

Soon enough though, even with the fear flitting through my mind of wear I was, the fever won out, and I dipped back into the unconscious.

-

-

-

"I'm giving up on love!" I cheered heartily, fake, raising my glass to a toast.

"Horsecrap," my sister elbowed me before leaving.

"Liar," her fiance toned in, trailing behind.

"Honestly, what kind of New Year's resolution is that?" Kylie questioned, with-holding her flute of champagne from my toast.

"The probable sort," I returned, ducking my head down to glance at the bill we'd been dumped with.

"Oh?"

"Yeah. I mean, who needs a man anyway? All that ever happens is we end up their little favor doers and errand runners. I mean, really, there is no love in any equation. They only want us for sex and doing stuff."

She perked an eyebrow.

"Because, what is love, really? A momentary rush of hormones. A trick of the mind. That's the horescrap, there. It's all lust and attraction and then someone becomes the pageboy in the relationship. And, really, it's just -- "

"Rose."

"Yeah?" I glanced back up from the bill slip -- $76, thank you sister dear -- to Kylie's furrowed face.

"Do you hear yourself?"

"Most of the time," I concluded, after some serious thought to her rhetorical question.

She shook her head hopelessly, letting it drop into her awaiting arms momentarily before -- ahah, up it sprung again. "Well," she prattled, "I for one am resolving to find you some romance."

I grimaced here, chortling a bit and looking away. If she wanted to make a waste of her New Year, that was her decision. Not mine.

There was a waitress passing by, a few tables down, smiling as she wiped down tables and stacked away the occasional stray dish. She seemed calm, relaxed, happy even in the rush of the hour. Unworried for the New Year, her New Year. And I found myself staring, jealous of her perfected exterior. Wondering at the rainbow springing up from beneath her apron.

-

-

-

The next time I woke, there were rays of light syphoning through the window. I could still feel the sweat seeping through my skin, but I didn't bother to evaluate myself beyond that. If I was sick, for now at least, I just didn't want to know. My eyes were open though, blinking away the memory of last New Year that crept into my unconscious as I struggled and strained to move my arms to a more comfortable position.

I could lift my elbow, if barely. When it came to actually moving and untangling the painful mess of arms before my face however, I was useless. So, smiting my ailing muscles, I turned my attention to what I could now distinguish in the dimly lit room: a bookshelf stacked full, a laptop resting on a coffee table, a tele with a melted frame standing out from lavender walls.

I knew this place, lived in this place. But had I actually reached it? How then, could I not remember? And when now I could scarcely move? Although, if not me, then who could have gotten me here? Surely not any family. My sister had moved to Ireland, hadn't she? And far be it for me to talk to my parents.

Who else, though? Kylie? No, she was visiting family in Scotland. Perhaps Jessica? Oh, but wasn't she angry with me? Why would she be coming here?

The creaking of floor boards, however, alerted me that I might not have to answer any of these questions for myself. That, at least, was a relief.

Tilting my head as best I could with my enervated muscles, I managed to glimpse towards the dimly lit hallway. Head sagging downward and hands carrying something I couldn't quite make out in the near darkness was Jessica emerging from the shadows. What she was doing here, though, I still had little than no idea.

"Hi?" I whispered questioningly towards her, catching her attention. Startling her, more like it. She dropped whatever it was she was holding as she jerked her head towards me. Still, I had her attention.

"Hey," she called back, falling to her knees to fetch all she'd dropped.

And then we fell, once more, into the congested silence that had swarmed me all night. I hated it, writhed in it. But she certainly wasn't saying anything. So, taking in a breath, I continued. "What happened?" I asked cautiously.

"What do you mean?" She returned, glancing up but still grabbing for things in the dark.

"Just that," I shrugged, or attempted to. The measly movement barely registered to my own eyes. "What happened? How did I get here?" I choked within the last question, rasping the words and stopping to try quenching the fire burning at my throat.

"Uh?"

I dropped my head back down the short inch or so I'd managed to crane at her look of confusion. She was fiddling with whatever was in her hand -- a thermometer, I think. Averting her eyes, her face so that I couldn't make anything out.

"I don't. . . I don't get it," she whispered.

I groaned, more in despair than anger, wishing I had the strength to bury my face. "I don't remember," I rasped. "I was outside. . ."

She blinked up, "but you were already inside when I got here. You were lying on the floor. I only moved you from there."

Again, the silence swam between us, soaking our pores and drenching us to shivers. It was awkward, blunt, filled with so many things that should be said but couldn't be managed. Pictured with her averting her eyes and my weakened, twitching frame.

When she glanced up again, she smiled frailly, unsure, patting her free hand with the thermometer and decidedly taking a few cautious steps towards me. She was nearly kneeling beside me, rolling the sanitary sleeve onto the thermometer when I braved to break the silence again.

"But why are you here?" I said it softly, half praying she wouldn't hear me and simply continue on taking my temperature. It seemed to be so, too, for after peeling back the application paper, she merely probed it into my mouth, never acknowledging that I'd spoken. So, after moments of belittling and bullying myself mentally, I mumbled my best reiteration while trying to keep the thermometer from falling loose.

If I'd been able to form actual words in that process, I might have felt accomplished. The noises I'd produced had grasped her attention though, so I wasn't yet deterred and waited this time until she pulled the beeping stick from my mouth.

Ignoring her forthcoming murmurs about the temperature, I asked the same question for a third time. This time, she lowered the device.

"What do you mean, why am I here?" Her brow deepened, her muscles twitching into a frown.

"Aren't you supposed to be mad at me?" I questioned again, slowly, afraid of what the answer might be.

". . .Mad. As in, I'll never speak to you again, I hate your stinkin guts, can't you see what you've done, mad?" Rambling, her pace became extorted, sped up and quirky while within the bounds of comprehension.

"Mm, yeah. Pretty much." I muttered.

And she started laughing. Loud, roaring bursts that quaked her entire torso. Her mouth was open, gasping for air and her arms wrapped around her midriff as she bent double. Laughing, giggling, chortling at me.

"Uh?" I tried prod her, but my muscles were still in petition. Her giggles were making me uncomfortable, nervous. "Why are y-y --" I spoke up to question her, see if she'd stop, but the words began to stick like bricks in my throat and I found myself coughing again.

That did, at least, sober her smiles.

"Hey, hey! Rose, are you okay?" A cool hand was on my sweaty forehead, making me shiver at the drastic temperature. There was a blanket twisted by my feet, but I knew I would never manage to move it.

"You didn't answer the question," I simply stated, succeeding in letting the side of my face fall into the pillow and away from the colder, cruel air.

"I didn't think I really had to," She spoke with risen eyebrows, still poking and prodding along the couch I'd been condemned to.

"And if you did?" I managed, my voice rasping sharply again.

"Well," She sighed a little, tugging out the blanket I'd been eyeing earlier and spreading it out above my shivering limbs, "I suppose I am mad. Or was mad. Or should be? Oh, what do I know? Did you make me rage? Yes, of course! But, aren't there times when everyone wants to strangle someone? I came back because I felt guilty. And just because I have steam pouring from my ears, that doesn't mean I don't care for you."

"Right," I murmured sleepily, only registering half of what she'd sputtered but comforted by it all the same.

"And you, don't ever do that again," She warned.

"Hmm?" I sounded, confused.

"You looked dead on the floor. Do that to me again and I might destroy you myself," Her eyes twinkled comically, but she sounded strained.

"Mmkay," I mumbled, mostly to the pillow. "Where are you going?" I asked when I felt her stand from my side.

"I have work in about an hour."

"Oh."

"Do you think maybe I left one of my uniforms here? I'd rather not leave you alone until I have to."

I just stared at her, my equivalence to a shrug for today, until she finally turned at shuffled through my closet at whim. It wasn't long, though, before she emerged triumphantly, smirking and holding up the waitress garb.

---

Bah, rubbish. Pure rubbish. Finished, finally. But complete and utter rubbish.