Reckless

She stares at her skin. It doesn't look any different. Then why does it feel different? Why does it feel like things are crawling up her arms, itching and biting and ripping and stabbing? Why does she want to tear all of her flesh off?

Oh, right. She feels disgusting. She's scrubscrubscrubbed her skin until it was red and raw, but she doesn't feel clean. She's impure, and she knows it. She doesn't know why it's true. She can't remember anything right now. It's just true.

And now the things are on her face. She can feel them crawling. She scratches furiously. They won't go away. Her skin tingles – bad, not good. Why won't these damn things leave her alone? They've reached her hair. She shudders. This is terrifying. What are they? Why can't she see them, feel them, get rid of them?

It's all his fault! He left, and they came! He probably brought them on purpose! That asshole! Whywhywhy?

She stops in her tracks, on the way to another attempt to scrubscrubscrub the nasty things off. Why was he even here? She's not fond of him, and she's pretty sure he's not fond of her. They're always at each other's throats. Everyone knows they can't stand each other. So, again, why was he here?

He's her favorite cousin's boyfriend. That's the only reason she's ever near him, because she wants to hang out with her best friend. Even then they won't stop fighting. They really can't stand each other at all. God damnit! What the fuck was he doing here?

Last night comes back in flashes. It was Saturday…no, Friday…no, Sunday? No, definitely Friday. She was at her favorite bar. Her workweek had seemed much longer than normal, so she'd decided that a couple of drinks were in order. And, of course, she'd gotten smashed. She was pretty certain she'd danced with quite a few guys. She may have even given one…five?…her number. Except she didn't really have a number, so it didn't matter.

And then…she'd gotten bored. It was inevitable. It happened every night. It was routine. She'd chosen a guy to take home with her. There'd been no shortage of options, as per usual. She was most often the hottest girl at the bar. Most of the patrons would probably give their right arm for one night with her. It wasn't vanity. It was a fact. A carefully-studied, repeatedly-tested fact.

Crap.She remembers now. Oh crap. Holy fucking shit! This is notnotnot good at all. Fucking hell! She's so dead. Sosososoincredibly dead.

She slept with him. The biggest crime a girl could commit, either in relation to her family or her friends. She slept with her best friend/cousin's boyfriend. IamsoFUCKED!


BASTARD! She leans over the toilet, and what remains of her breakfast falls in. She collapses to her knees, staring at it in disbelief. Nonono! What is she going to do? She gropes around on the counter. Her fingers wrap around a hard piece of plastic, and she slowly brings it to her eye level. Well…?

double fuck. She falls to the floor, her back against the wall for support. This cannot be happening! ShitshitshitSHIT! She bangs her head against the wall, hard. Her hands are fisted in her own hair. She's going to rip all of it out if she's not careful. Tears roll fast from her bloodshot eyes.

FuckfuckFUCK! Her body racks with sobs. Whymewhymewhyme? She can't deny it any longer. She's pregnant. With her best friend/cousin's now fiancé's child. Who she hates with a burning passion, even more so now. FUCK!