tides | jj maybank x oc

ep. 15 ~ aftermath

luna b was always a little judgemental, especially when it came to judging herself. she was extra quick to judge in that case. and, after her mess up with the pogues, she had been really, really judging herself.

she was adept at targeting her negative mood swings inwards, after all. and she knew she deserved it this time: she'd kept potentially vital information in the search for john b's own father from the group. so there was no talking herself out of it this time.

so she'd accepted it, let herself fester in it once the ocean washed her back to shore the previous night as if refusing to accept her surrender. that had only made her spiral further. it made her... angry.

nothing good ever came from luna b's anger.

~~~

(luna b)

everything's dark and spinning, somehow i know that even with my eyes closed.

im sweating, i can feel the sheets clinging to me like a million hands keeping me captive, and i can smell something fucking vile.

i peel my eyes open, squinting into the half light of the room around me, and nausea washes over me so strong i can't fight it back down. i only just manage to throw myself onto my side quick enough to avoid just vomiting down my front. as it is the bile ive managed to bring back up is dripping on my arm.

that's grim.

once i'm sure there's nothing more to come up i haul myself upright, trying to get my bearings.

i don't know where i am. don't even know where i should be.

everything's... hazy. like a camera shot that's not quite in focus.

my eyes fight to adjust and slowly i can begin to understand where i am, taking in my surroundings by focusing on one thing at a time.

the thin curtains. the wood stained boards that made up the walls. that sun bleached and torn band posters. the surfboard lent up in the corner. the cracked family photo on the little wooden dresser. the vomit soaked sheets- shit.

this is the château. worse, this is john b's room in the château.

shit. shit. shitttt.

i throw myself upright and off the bed, haphazardly wiping at the vomit on myself with the bed sheets in the process. everything goes dizzying, blinding, sharp, and painful and im on the floor before i know it, fighting back the next wave of nausea.

i manage to make it through by spitting and wiping at my mouth desperately with my dress, thankfully avoiding another mess.

then i'm up again, struggling round to the other side of the bed, trying to bundle up the soiled bedding. but my hands can't quite grip. i can't feel the sheets properly, let alone hold onto them long enough to strip the bed of them.

everything feels wrong, like my body's stuffed with cotton wool or something.

but i keep trying. bunching the cotton between my fingers again and again and again, frustration burning behind my eyes everytime that same cotton slips from my hand. which it does, again and again and again.