wormwood, pt. 1

[Working title. This one will be a long one. I'll try to do at least one a week. Sorry for being straightforward. It won't happen again. -Ed.]

Exactly one week before the end of the world, Rosalind Byrne was wondering where her bruises had come from. She worried sometimes that she drank too much, mostly on mornings like these where she was hungover and injured in ways she'd probably never figure out. Most of the time she didn't think she really drank that often.

She was not wondering how she ended up on her friend Winston's couch. It was easier to break into when she was drunk. He kept around something to clean up the blood. There had been a lot over the years. He always threatened to kick her out or call the cops or make her clean it up but he was always there in the end. And one week before the end of the world, Winston Stewart was late for work because he woke up to find an unexpected guest. He was berating her, though she wasn't really listening, because she'd just discovered the road rash on her upper arm.

And then he said, "You aren't listening to a word I'm saying, are you?"

"No, sorry. Aren't you late?"

"I am, because I'm making coffee for you, and I suppose you'll want breakfast, too."

"Since you're offering. Can I use your shower?"

"I hate you so much. There's clean towels in the laundry room. Try not to get them too bloody."

"Thanks, Winston."