Six Feet Under

Chapter 26 //

Liz Casper

11:00 A.M.

    "Oh my God. You look like shit."

    What?

    I had been in a sleep so deep, that the words just spoken to me were nothing but a buzz in my ear. The speaker of the words I also could not identify; the crippling exhaustion from being in the emergency room until sunrise and the painkillers running through my blood had muddled my ability to comprehend anything. The voice was diluted and murky—like whoever was trying to communicate with me was speaking underwater.

    The first of my senses to return to me in normalcy was my sight. The clouds in the sky had parted and the sun was peeking through the half-drawn curtains of my window. As I squinted my eyes in burning pain, I dug my elbows into the mattress and lifted my torso off of my bed—to bring myself into a position that felt a little more like sitting.

    But the moment I moved, a stabbing pain ran through my calf unlike anything I had ever felt before. It was a pain that was barbaric, and remorseless—a pain one would never understand until it was felt.

    "Ow!" I shouted so loud that my own ear began to ring and I launched forward desperately to cradle my ankle.

    "Stop moving!" that voice spoke again. Whomever's body that voice belonged to, they lunged forward to grab my hand, but they shied away instantly, and instead wrapped their hand around the bedpost. The hand was familiar. It  was boney, and pale; so pale that the skin was practically translucent, and I could see the veins running down their wrist.

    My head shot up. It was Gail.

    I barely recognized her. She still had that ravenous, animalistic look to her—but her body seemed to be withering away. She was just barely flesh and bones, with a grayish hue to her skin. She looked dehydrated, and underslept; her lips were dry, her eyes were sunken, and last night's eyeliner was leaking down her temples. She was dressed in what appeared to be pajamas—thin, heather gray sweatpants with holes in them and an oversized t-shirt that was tucked in in the front. She hadn't changed her hairdo from the night before, but it was only more wild after having been slept on. Flyaways stuck out everywhere from her scalp and her forehead was shaded with small baby hairs.

    "Gail!" I shouted. "How long have you been standing there?"

    "Sorry," she answered immediately. There was a strange softness to her voice. "Kind of a while."

    "Well..." I continued, trying to gather my thoughts. I couldn't even begin to imagine how dazed I sounded to her. "Why didn't you say anything earlier?"

    "Well..." her voice trailed off, like she was fearful of what she was about to admit. "You were sleeping. I didn't wanna wake you."

    As my brain cleared, I realized that I must've looked deathly, and I immediately became self-conscious. I ran my hands through my hair, spinning a finger through each curl so it looked less mangled. I rubbed my hands across my cheeks and under my eyes, hoping to get rid of any stray makeup. I didn't think that my attempt to perfect myself was so obvious—but apparently, I was wrong.

    "You look fine," Gail said sharply while grazing a finger over the bedpost. "For God's sake Liz, you just broke your ankle last night. You don't need to look perfect."