Was absolute torture getting this measly bit of writing done today.
Reginald looked across the ether and shook his head sadly. The journey before Mickelson and Julie was going to be many things, but easy wasn’t one of them. Hopefully they could find a way to come together over the coming weeks despite what was about to occur. If not, then all of them, the cosmos included, was doomed.
Mickelson snapped his eyes open and stared at the ceiling. His ceiling. No Reginald. No theater. No crazy body morphing. Just him. Home. And Julie.
Julie!
Mickelson sat up and found her where he’d seen her last, through the vapors, collapsed on his living room floor. Lifeless. It didn’t even look like she was breathing. He rushed over to her and checked her pulse. Weak, but there. Her color was bad though. Like stale puke, and her breathing was labored.
Fuck, not good.
A good hard shake didn’t rouse her, so Mick decided to go the slap route he had used her body to deliver to him. Light slap. No good. Harder slap. Still nothing. Finally he pulled back and delivered a blow that would have made Ike Turner proud. Mick felt sick to his stomach, and she still wasn’t waking up.
Frustrated he closed his eyes and put his head in his hands. After a moment he realized he still felt the connection with her body. With just a thought he entered her. What he found was an enormous emptiness. He didn’t notice it when he’d taken her over the first time because he was too focused on how to puppet her. But there was a distinct lack of Julie in Julie. Which begged the question where the hell was she.
No comments:
Post a Comment