Life Without Laughter

Twenty-Two - Delilah - It All Looks Blurry

Her legs shivered like noodles in a pot. Her knees felt frail as she shambled up to her feet. The ground felt like it was quaking beneath her, but she knew it was all just on her. The slamming of the door from Marcus finally got tears streaming down her cheeks.

After multiple failed tries, she found her feet stable on the floor, and wobbled to the backdoor. She clutched the keys so tightly in her hand that the palm get slit. The pain didn't feel like pain. Numb. It was numb.

As Delilah exited the Akva, she began to think about what she'd done to get to this point. She couldn't excuse her behaviour, she owned it. She was responsible for it. She tried to be good. She tried to help out. She wanted to help Marcus. If he knew she had the money, would he have felt the incentive to do this comedy class?

Yet, when he got the slot in it. She was still in disbelief. Like she was in some hyperbole dream, too far fabricated to be seen as real.

It's like Delilah has a secret trigger even she isn't aware of. At random, or when it's best left untouched, it will be flicked, getting her to instantly do something irrational or rash.

Maybe that trigger was flicking too much between the bad and good.

Delilah continued these regretful musings as she got a cab to her house, emphasising the address multiple times. Every car had the same blurred look to it as they whizzed by. She groaned, grazing her head. While she appreciated the lengths Marcus went to, to get her to feel better. The bitterness of his snark to her never left her mouth. How could he be malicious to—

See? That trigger again.

Hopefully some sleep would help her headache and minor internal crisis. If not that, then some prescribed paracetamol from Dr Reeves would do the trick.

Time Skip

Delilah first felt a wet patch on her mattress, underneath her arms. She grunted in disgust and yanked off the bedsheets too, just in case. Clearly last night had gotten to her nerve systems and she was paying the price. The price of disrespect.

She did know what respect was deep down. She just had to find a way to express it. Delilah shuffled into her kitchen, opened up the curtains slightly, and reached into a deep cupboard for her small pack of pills. She pulled out the container and blew away a select few specks of dust on the lid. She set it down on the table, loosening the cap while also tilting it towards her open hand.

It'd been a good while since Delilah took a few pills. She had less reason to use them as her illness at the time had gone away quickly once Marcus came back. Now, it's the inverse, the simple image of him makes her stomach churn.

She couldn't feel any substantial effects from the medication, only the sour thought that her fiancé could now be her ex-boyfriend. She tried to smile last the darkness, through the self-doubt fogging her conscious. After what she realised how wrong she was about Ashley, she considered returning to work from her 'illness.'

No. That wouldn't work. Nothing would be fixed under the watchful glare of MJA's absurd practises. If she wanted to mend that aching in her heart, she'd have to confront Marcus face-to-face, and say something she'd never said before.

An apology.

Delilah devoured her breakfast with ease, leaving no room in her stomach, no room to feel empty. She set aside the bowl and found a coat lying on the floor beside the rack. She rolled her eyes and picked it up carefully, like it was fragile or dangerous. After a good enough inspection, Delilah decided it was sanitary enough to be worn.

As she put the coat on, her hand felt something solid in one of the pockets. She took it out and felt like slapping herself. It was the car keys. Normally, she would never do a mistake so novice. Maybe all the secrecy had a greater influence on her than she thought.