jillian reed 🍺 haymitch abernathy (cantankard) wrote in dunhavenic, @ 2018-05-29 02:43:00 |
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Entry tags: | !narrative, * jach, c: jillian reed |
WHO: Jillian Reed.
WHERE: Her apartment.
WHEN: Early Monday morning.
WHAT: Haunted by a name.
RATING: Low.
STATUS: narrative; complete.
Jillian wakes up screaming. Her head is pounding something awful and half asleep she reaches underneath her pillow for the knife she keeps there. Hair tangled in her eyes, she grips the knife tightly and thrusts it forward in a defensive stance. They may come for her one day, but she knows she’ll take at least one of them down with her. Except, none of that can be right. Jill blinks her eyes in the early morning sunlight streaming through her window. As her brain moves from sleeping to waking, she pushes herself up into a proper sitting position. She gives her head a shake and her hair falls out of her eyes. When her vision finally clears, her eyes land on her right hand. A long, deadly sharp kitchen knife is actually clutched in her hand. With a startled gasp, Jillian drops it and it clatters against the fuzzy purple rug on her bedroom floor. What? God, her head is pounding so painfully she can barely string two thoughts together. Brown eyes scan her room and land on a bottle of whiskey sitting on her bedside table. She can feel the bile rising in her throat at the sight of it. She hasn’t had a drop of alcohol in seven years and the horror with which she stares at the bottle is beyond anything she’s dealt with in a long time. What happened to her the night before? She struggles to sort dream from reality as she climbs out of bed and gingerly steps around the knife. She remembers going to dinner with her family, perhaps eating too much. Toasting Josie’s graduation with nothing more than sparkling cider. Her hands shake as she presses them to her temples, trying to make sense of everything. Names float to her through the haze. Haymitch. Snow. Katniss. Peeta. She tries to grasp at them, but they only slip further away. She’s left only with trembling hands, a pounding in her skull, and a general feeling of anger. Feeling defeated, Jill sinks back down onto her bed and stares at the bottle. She wants it. She hasn’t had any desire to drink since she was in high school, but suddenly she’s sure if she doesn’t get another drink her head might crack open and kill her. She reaches a hand toward it for a split second then stops herself. This isn’t right. It can’t be. It’s all just a bad, bad dream. Right? Lips pressed together tightly, Jillian reaches down to retrieve the knife and hurries back toward the kitchen to place it back in its rightful drawer. After she’s done, the whiskey bottle is hidden away in the cupboard above the fridge. She’d meant to pour the remaining alcohol down the drain, but she can’t quite manage it. When she’s done she feels a little more like herself again. Like Jillian. But as she tries to go about the rest of her morning routine, a name continues to haunt her. Haymitch. |