Room 417, Saturday Morning
Latish Friday night, Jack stumbled back to Jill's room and managed to get his jar of peanut butter and anything else that overtly said 'Jack's been outside!' either hidden or thrown away. He hid his new shoes and jacket in 'his' drawer, where Jill wouldn't look on a dare, under a couple of Hustlers. Then he fell asleep, pretty much fully clothed.
The next morning, Jill woke up with one bitching hangover. But she couldn't think about why her skull felt like it was being split open, just yet. She had to do Plan B. It went something like this:
Step one. Sit up and stare at the mirror over the dresser. Fix the image of her female face in her mind's eye.
Step two. Lie down, close her eyes, and begin the mantra: I am all girl, in time with her breathing. In, I am, out, all girl. Envision a black dot in the center of her forehead, expanding until it engulfs her entire head.
Step three. Project every detail of Jack's four days onto the blackness, fast, as if it is a movie, being sure not to absorb any of the details. Let it fade to black, to nothing.
Step four. Paste the image of her own female face onto the blackness, focusing until it is crystal clear and the only thing she sees.
And that was it. That was Plan B. Jack erased as if he'd never been.
Jill laid there for a few minutes before she got up to find a tampon, because of course she'd woken up with her period, as always, some painkillers, and some French toast. Nothing looked too out of place on her first scan around the room, although it didn't look like Jack had left her a note. Weird. He usually did, even if it was just to ask for more porn or remind her he liked stupid smooth peanut butter. Maybe he'd been kept somewhere else for the four days. That was fine by her. She had a life to get back to in this loony bin.
((Establishy. Some text modified from Cycler.))
The next morning, Jill woke up with one bitching hangover. But she couldn't think about why her skull felt like it was being split open, just yet. She had to do Plan B. It went something like this:
Step one. Sit up and stare at the mirror over the dresser. Fix the image of her female face in her mind's eye.
Step two. Lie down, close her eyes, and begin the mantra: I am all girl, in time with her breathing. In, I am, out, all girl. Envision a black dot in the center of her forehead, expanding until it engulfs her entire head.
Step three. Project every detail of Jack's four days onto the blackness, fast, as if it is a movie, being sure not to absorb any of the details. Let it fade to black, to nothing.
Step four. Paste the image of her own female face onto the blackness, focusing until it is crystal clear and the only thing she sees.
And that was it. That was Plan B. Jack erased as if he'd never been.
Jill laid there for a few minutes before she got up to find a tampon, because of course she'd woken up with her period, as always, some painkillers, and some French toast. Nothing looked too out of place on her first scan around the room, although it didn't look like Jack had left her a note. Weird. He usually did, even if it was just to ask for more porn or remind her he liked stupid smooth peanut butter. Maybe he'd been kept somewhere else for the four days. That was fine by her. She had a life to get back to in this loony bin.
((Establishy. Some text modified from Cycler.))