InsaneJournal

narrative;
WHO: Jackie Frost
WHAT: The things going through Jackie's mind, post-zombie apocalypse.
WHEN: Early Monday evening.
WHERE: The medical wing.
RATING: G.



Early evening in the medical wing of Neopolis Academy found the infirmary abuzz with student life. Magicians and supers, monsters and scientists, all gathered around the beds of their friends, asking after their health and recounting the individual events and adventures of the zombie attack. There was laughter, there were tears, there were pockets of silence where loved ones just held each other and gave thanks for being there, being alive, being safe, being together. When the news and phones went back up, there was a fair din amongst the rows of beds from which little cries of dismay rose intermittently. Accusations were shouted and quarrels bubbled up, only to be quickly silenced by staff and exasperated peers.

Amongst the hubbub of recovery from the traumatic weekend, Jacqueline Frost sat alone. She sat, not lay, for she would not be tucked into her bed, an invalid requiring assistance. As soon as she could muster the strength, she'd gotten up, smoothed the bedding, and made to leave the infirmary - only to be told, quite firmly, that those infected early on were to stay under observation until Wednesday. So instead, she'd requested a change of clothes (jeans and sweatshirt, despite the warmth; she wanted to cover up the stitches and bandages), and sat back down. She remained this way throughout the rest of the afternoon, cross-legged atop her bed, staring intently into her PDA. She passed the time reading posts on the network and catching up on the news. The whole of her body throbbed with pain from bruises and lacerations, various ailments afforded to her by her brief time as a girl becoming undead. She was achingly tired, but refused to sleep in public when so many others were awake.

Jackie Frost sat alone in a room filled with people. Neighbors on either side chatted with friends or slumbered fitfully. It was not, of course, as though she was perpetually alone. People came and went, mostly on their way to see others, or as an afterthought to another visit. She smiled politely at Beatrix; Rob was given a cursory apology; she accepted Phoebus's gift and shortly at his jokes. Dominique was given the barest of assurances; she only just acknowledged June Justice. They'd all been quickly dismissed. She let them fulfill any sense of obligation they had towards her, she cherry-picked them for any information (Dani was passed out, Cole had broken ribs, Drake had been bitten, Trish's zombie kill count paled in comparison to Nate's), and then she let them know quite clearly that she had nothing else to say to them. Some of them had protested, some merely frowned, others shrugged and moved on, leaving her to herself once more.

Truth be told, each of these well-intentioned encounters were mere blips on her radar. Little annoyances that needed to be dealt with; come to the surface, run through the lines, and let herself sink back into herself. At worst, the visits were blaring reminders of the humiliations she'd visited upon herself in the last 72 hours; each memory was a weight on her wrists and ankles, dragging her down and down.

In this submerged state of mind, she allowed herself one indulgence and one only: beside her sat a cellphone, the call log showing a dozen calls - all the same length, all unanswered, all the same name and number.

The first few times she dialed her father's number, she caught herself hoping that he'd pick up. That he was just busy attending to League business, or trying to save their home. But after the first two hours, she cut herself short. He's probably in a meeting, and they don't...

Stop.

If he were going to answer, it'd be on the first ring. No matter when, no matter where, no matter what. That's how it was, and that's how it would be if he'd forgiven you. He has not.

She kept calling. Every half hour, she pressed send; eventually, she didn't even both lifting the phone to her ear. With every quiet thrum of the ringtone, every click over to voicemail, she sank a little deeper into herself. Every fathom farther, she saw things with more clarity. Crystal-clear, icy cold. She knew, she fully acknowledged, that every time she pressed that little green button, she was flagellating herself. It was stupid, it was sentimental, and she smirked knowingly every time the display came to 0:43 and the call ended.

He was never going to answer.

She was entirely on her own.

That was how it should be.

Other people, she reasoned from the bottom, where everything in her world floated above her, easily knowable pinpoints in clear blue waters, are only useful for the mileage they give you, the places they can get you to.

Attachments were sticky, burdensome, and needed to be controlled. She'd lost control; she needed to get it back. From here, down in the deepest parts of her conscience & consciousness, she could see how it all fit together. She could tell where the pieces fit, where the links tied, where the paths led. It was up top where things got blurry, confused, unseeable & unknowable.

She had to stay here. She had to plan. She had to get back what was hers.

The five foot radius around her stayed a steady, unwavering ten degrees cooler than the rest of the room. Her expression stayed a steady, unwavering passive. She sat on a bed, surrounded by people, deep inside herself, and all, all alone.