Outsider (Male oc x Class of 09)

Before canon - Part 3

Ever felt like you're stuck in a twisted game of temperature roulette? You feel like the room's Arctic cold, but your throat's Sahara hot. Your head's throbbing like it's hosting an after-party for last night's hangover, while your muscles? Yeah, they're staging a full-blown protest.

No? Well, aren't you the lucky one? Poor Jecka's not sharing the same stroke of luck.

Right now, the girl with the golden locks is playing the role of the bedridden damsel, courtesy of a nasty sickness. Meanwhile, her folks are off on what she sarcastically dubs "Mom's desperate attempt at saving a failing relationship." If this is the married life, Jecka wants no part of it.

Give her a series of superficial flings over a lifetime of matrimonial misery any day.

Although, if the hubby happens to be rolling in dough, maybe she could stomach it. Just maybe.

Jecka: "God, this sucks," she grumbles, her tone dripping with disdain.

Her so-called caretakers didn't even bother with proper meds, opting instead for a mishmash of her mom's prescriptions and her dad's stash of drugs. As if that'll magically fix everything.

Her head's pounding like a jackhammer, her body's staging a revolt, and her stomach's threatening mutiny. It's a smorgasbord of misery. She tries reaching out to her friends for help, but then she remembered Kelly's cousin just threw a party to celebrate his college acceptance.

So here she is, confined to her bed, wishing for some cosmic catastrophe to derail her parents' vacation and force them back home to deal with her problems. Yup, just lying here, hoping against hope...

Jecka: "God, I know I haven't exactly been on my best behavior lately, but a little divine intervention wouldn't hurt," she mutters, half-serious, half-delirious from the fever.

Suddenly, the doorbell chimes through the house.

Who could that be? Last she checked, her parents didn't schedule any visitors—like, ever. Not her concern, though. She just needs to play possum and wait for whoever it is to take the hint and scram. People? Not in the mood.

But then her throat feels drier than the Sahara in July. Summoning every ounce of energy, she drapes herself in a blanket and shuffles toward the kitchen, pausing every few steps to ward off the vertigo threatening to send her sprawling. If God was real, this is him punishing her.

Stupid fucking fever, stupid parents forgetting to buy any damn medicine, Jecka cursed inwardly as she finally stumbled into the kitchen. Snatching a water bottle from the fridge, she guzzled it down like it was the elixir of life. As the liquid trickled down her throat, her stomach decided to join the pity party, growling like a wounded animal.

With a sigh, she checks fridge, hoping for a miracle in the form of leftover pizza or anything remotely edible. Of course, her luck was as lousy as her health—nothing but disappointment greeted her. She grumbled under her breath, scouring the pantry and cabinets to no avail. Just peachy, she thought bitterly. Starvation it is, then!

Okay, maybe not starvation, but definitely a serious case of culinary deprivation. There were ingredients around, sure, but Jecka's current state made cooking an Olympic feat. Ordering takeout seemed like the obvious solution, but her phone was chilling in her room, and she couldn't muster the energy to trek back upstairs without risking a faceplant halfway there.

Then, like a persistent itch, the doorbell rang again. Seriously? They're still lurking around? Jecka glanced at the clock—it was nearly 1:00 PM. Had she been bedridden that long? Damn fever had her losing track of time.

Another ring. For the love of all that's holy, just scram already! Jecka shot a venomous glare at the door, silently praying for whoever it was to just drop dead. When it rang yet again, she felt a surge of frustration. If only murder weren't illegal...