A shiver slowly crawled over Adora's body, and she stretched weakly in an unsuccessful attempt to ward off the lingering ache that accompanied it. She moaned, tired of the sensation, and tugged her heavy blanket up to her chin before flipping over onto her stomach and tucking its corners tightly beneath her.
She exhaled deeply, finally feeling comfortable, even if only for a few minutes. Her eyes drifted shut and she fell into a light, refreshing sleep, a line of drool trickling from the corner of her gaping mouth and connecting it to her pillow. The puddle spread beneath her cheek until half of her face was damp, and the wetness eventually grew cool.
"Whoa," she muttered to herself, startled suddenly awake by the drool that now inched its way down her neck. She pulled herself up, a raging urge to pee developing suddenly with the motion. She'd had a good five cups of tea in the few hours she had been awake, and her body was expelling the fluid in short, frequent bursts.
Swinging her legs over the side of the bed, she stumbled to her feet and used the wall as support; a rush to her head as she rose made her vision starry and blotchy. The bathroom light was harsh, and she squeezed her eyes shut, peeking only occasionally to check for obstacles as she walked. Lifting the toilet lid, she plopped herself down unceremoniously, the now familiar ache creeping over her skin once more as the cool seat met with her abnormally warm buttcheeks. She closed her eyes and let her body slump as the initial dribble of urine flowed freely and warmly.
On and on it went, the sound both soothing and relieving, relaxing her body a little more with each passing --
"Shit!" Adora breathed, sitting sharply up in her toasty bed. The abrupt movement dizzied her significantly, and she fell back against her plush pillows, her mind racing as she tried to organize her thoughts. Were the sheets dry? Check. Did she still have to pee? Check.
Good, she thought to herself. Health eluded her still, but luckily so did incontinence. Though, if she were to wet her bed beyond the age of seven, it would best be done while sick, delusional and weakened by a fever.
Sighing gratefully for consciousness claiming her at just the right moment, she scurried to her feet - for real, this time, she was sure - and tiptoed down the corridor to the washroom. The cool floor against her bare skin gave her goosebumps and she wrapped her arms around herself protectively. Flicking on the heatlamp and vanity light switches simultaneously, she once more lifted the toilet's lid and plopped herself down upon it, a stream more powerful than she'd dreamt immediately releasing itself.
"Sexcellent," she muttered to herself as the pressure in her bladder mercifully eased and eased and --
Adora's eyelids flipped open as one of her particularly loud snores startled her awake, and without taking any time to orient herself, she hurried to the bathroom and settled herself on the toilet, not bothering to turn any lights on before doing so. She pinched and prodded at her face as the now unbearably heavy load began to lessen. As far as she could tell, she really was awake now, but still uncertain, she physically held her droopy eyes open and pondered how she would flip her mattress in her weakened state, should reality truly be different from what she was currently experiencing.
After flushing and washing her hands, and content that she really was awake, Adora finished her business and rushed back to her bed. Hopefully she hadn't just peed on her hands. She plucked a fresh kleenex from its floral box and rolled two of its four corners between her fingers and inserted them in her nose. Feeling had long since left her face, and she could only vaguely feel fluid flowing from her nostrils - preventative measures were necessary.
"Guh," she grunted, curling herself into a fetal ball and tightening the covers around her. "-orgyyyy," she wailed, her clogged sinuses impairing her speech. No response came, and rather than call for her wifey nursey again, she closed her eyes and drooled herself to sleep - hopefully it would not torment her with more unpeed pee dreams.
casualties of their own flesh
but no bodies ever knew
no bodies felt like you]------
"Baby, how are you feeling?" Charlie asked softly, dipping his sponge into the steaming bathwater and squeezing it over Adora's back, careful not to irritate her skin. She whimpered lightly, her body seized and held captive by an unrelenting fever. Had she been strong enough, she would have surely scolded him for buying a dried sea sponge instead of a synthetic one. "How would youuu like to have corpse rubbed all over you?" she probably would have asked. Instead, she remained quiet, with the exception of half-cries, lamented softly every so often.
Candles were scattered about the bathroom, placed carefully where no threat to their balance was posed, but the subdued light did little to mask Adora's ghostly pallor. The fever forced her to sweat out any impurities in her skin, leaving it clear and dewy, but her tone appeared pale and grey nonetheless. She looked tiny in the tub, as if she would be lost in the water if Charlie were not there, keeping her from drifting away. His hand on her shoulder felt like thousands of tiny daggers being driven dully into her muscles each time he moved it, and she shuddered lightly each time he did, feeling too helpless to make it stop.
"Wait here," Charlie instructed, releasing his grip and not bothering to look back to see her response - she wasn't about to go anywhere and they both knew it. The swift opening and closing of the door swept a frigid breeze - or so it felt to Adora - through the bathroom, and she shivered as it caressed her bare skin before dying in the steam. Minutes passed and she remained alone, feeling certain that she was slowly getting sicker and sicker as her bathwater cooled from hot to warm to tepid. Goosebumps sprung forth on the skin that wasn't submerged, and she slumped down further into the water that was still warmer than the air itself.
Buried behind all of his irrational and possessive behaviour, Charlie really did want the best for Adora, and their bathroom was a testament to that. When he first moved into the small apartment, Charlie tore down one of of the bathroom's walls that separated it from a large closet on the other side. He expanded and renovated the space, replacing everything so that it looked straight out of an ancient Egyptian palace, if only to indulge Adora's fascination with Cleopatra VII.
Moments later he returned with two large mugs and a thick-glassed, cobalt blue decanter balanced on a heavy, wooden cutting board.
"What is that?" she asked weakly, not so much looking at him as she was seeing him from the corner of her eye.
"Mulled wine. You need something to warm you up from inside," he replied, before pausing to wiggle his eyebrows suggestively at the implications of his comment. Adora's mouth hung open from congestion, and her eyes remained lifeless and indifferent - normally she would have said something sassy back, but she was rationing her energy for breathing. He handed her a Japanese-style mug with no handle, and its heat immediately began to burn the flesh on her fingers. Before she could set it down, the mug slipped from her hands and into the water. The hot, red liquid swirled into the bathwater in elaborate shapes before mixing in completely, leaving it tinted pink.
"Oh dear," Charlie sighed. "Let's get you out of there." He reached into the tub and pulled the plug from the drain, and Adora stared blankly as the soapy, ros� water swirled noisily down into the pipes and away. To her surprise, he stepped into the tub behind her, now naked as she herself was, and helped her up, wrapping his arms around her waist to support her. He reached to the faucet and pulled the lever to switch on the shower head. Scalding water sprayed forth in a powerful jet, and her skin quickly turned pink, as if it too had been coloured by the wine.
He pumped a glob of vanilla shampoo into his free hand and began to work it gently into Adora's scalp. Despite the warmth of the water, she again broke out into goosebumps at the sensation, and he pressed her closer to him protectively.
"Thank you," she mumbled weakly, turning to face him. Through the steam and her half-closed eyes, she could just make out the look of concern on his face and sympathy in his eyes. He smiled and moved her under the stream to rinse the suds from her hair, saying nothing.
He wasn't always crazy and irrational; in fact, most of the time he was warm and loving. That night, after carefully conditioning, brushing and drying her hair, he laid her in his bed and sat vigil on a nearby armchair, glancing up periodically from his book to make sure she looked content.
That's all he ever really wanted for her and for them. Where did he go so wrong? Somewhere, deep withing her, she had to miss that devotion.
"How are you feeling, Wifey?" Morgy asked as soon as she saw Adora's eyelids flutter with consciousness. She sat on the edge of Adora's bed and peered down at her curiously.
"Merrr," she groaned while stretching, her muscles tingling pleasantly as she did so. "I still feel like I've been hit by a truck, but I think I'm a bit stronger. It's more feeling crippled from that match than anything else."
"I hear that," Morgy agreed, gingerly fingering a large bruise on her right arm.
"I swear, every big match I have, someone tries to tear one of my legs out of its socket. People are such bastard coated bastards with bastard filling," Adora complained.
"At least you didn't get blood spilled all over you," Morgy reminded her, a look of disgust on her face.
"True. Sorry for ducking like that. Reflexes and such."
"I know. It's alright though, because Casanova and DD are the ones that ended up looking like jackasses. They tried so hard to make a joke of the match, to distract us with immature stunts - anything to gain some sort of advantage - and they still failed miserably. Who would've thought?"
"Just about everyone who can think straight!" Adora laughed. "The match was like a joke to begin with, simply because our opponents were better suited to being guests at a Halloween party than wrestlers in a high profile match."
"We should have dressed up or something!" Morgy gasped, appalled that she hadn't thought of the idea earlier.
"That reminds me, I'm going to be Bigfoot for Halloween next year, and I'm going to spew a lot of witty one-liners... I'll be a Sass-quatch!" Adora squealed, excited to finally share her idea with someone. "It came to me in a dream!" She grinned retardedly proudly.
"Or you could just dress up as a giant vagina and go as a Sass-crotch!" Morgy offered with a cackle.
"Yes! That's even better! And I'll queef out my one liners!"
"Speaking of which, have you seen Destiny Daniels's latest promo?"
"Haha, Pussy Marijuana? I didn't really get any of that, to be honest. Something about some dude named Frisk or Fisk and pussies and pussy frisking. I don't know. Can't say I care, either," Adora scoffed, flipping over to her side. She readjusted the sheets around her so that only cool parts of fabric rested against her skin.
"Me neither. Is there any point in paying attention to what she does? She'll never concede to the fact that we beat her because we're better, because she's still drowning in her own denial of not being the best anymore."
"If only it was just her who was in denial," Adora sighed. "Everyone in SW is batshit insane and can't get their noses out of DD's asshole. I don't get it."
"Me neither, but soon they'll figure it all out. They don't really have a choice."
"I hope so, because being the two most hated people in SW is going to wear us down soon," Adora said with a yawn. "It's already wearing me down, as you can see."
"Believe me, been there, done that," Morgy said, a grim expression on her face. "They'll think they can take you down for a long time before they fully realize they can't. I didn't start getting this Goddess crap for no reason, I had to work my ass off to earn that sort of random adulation."
"I know, I know," Adora sighed. "And I don't even want that."
"Either way, rest up. You've got a title defense at a Buffalo carnival coming up. You need all the energy you can get."
"Ewwww, Buffalo and clowns. Can it get any worse?"
"Not really, Wifulence, noooot really." With that, she took the spare blanket that sat neatly folded at the foot of Adora's bed and laid it over her sick best friend, who had easily dozed off before Morgy even finished her sentence.
I'm thrilled that I managed to stir up so much emotion amongst my little buddies here at SW last week; you were all twice as pissed off about my telling it like it is than I expected. Watching your laboured retorts - all distinctly lacking credibility, sass, humour and wit - was pretty draining and unintentionally hilarious, but that was one of two outcomes I expected:
1) You curl your tails between your legs and quietly scuttle away (this would have been the smart thing to do, but alas, you all chose otherwise).
2) You come roaring back at me, spouting the very same commentary, errors and idiocy I initially called you on. You guys really suck at surprising me, yo.
I wish I got more love from my peers, but I supposed I can see why I don't. Regardless, it's getting to be really tiring to watch people like Destiny Daniels get respect and recognition from the men in this fed, while Morgana gets so little and I get even less. Why, pray tell, is DD considered a formidable foe, ally and athlete while we're just silly whores? Because she has a secret life that promises to be totally badass? Because she acts like she's secretly a man? Because she's the most unrealistic kind of woman out of all the females around here? None of those options really make sense.
So I must come to the conclusion that the reason so many males around here choose to drool over her instead of us, is that she's realistically less of a threat. She's not necessarily as good as you are - definitely not as good as we are - so it's okay to talk her up and adore her for incomprehensible reasons - that way, when/if you beat her, how awesome do you look?
Now, take me or Morgana, and that wouldn't really work. You'd always be one-upped, somehow, some way. It'd just be unavoidable. That still doesn't explain to me why no one is trying to align themselves with us... isn't it better to be on the same side as the best, rather than trying hopelessly to defeat them over and over again?
I don't know. I'm still working on figuring it out, but each time I try, all I can envision is you all stupidly flinging yourselves at moving trains over and over again, wasting your nine lives and never quite learning anything from the errors you made in previous ones.
Destiny's trying to get past her loss last week with as little acknowledgment of her failure as possible, other than that it was to "bitches." Why are we bitches? Because we're better than you? Seriously, what rotting cunts we are! How dare we outshine you!
I'm still trying to figure out what the crap happened during your promo, DD, and I'm coming up about nine different kinds of short. Way to come off as drunk, confused, dumb, slutty, arrogant and chemically imbalanced all at once! While that's an accidental kind of accomplishment, and not the kind you gloat about, it's still special in its own way.
I'll give you this much: you certainly have a gift for observation! Take Mr. Fisk's flaccid tie, for example. Could you almost say his tie was... yielding? Haha, I'm just kidding guy, you can chill.
I'm only mentioning her to show her the courtesy she denied me and the wife, which is, like I said, acknowledgment. So there you have it, I acknowledge that you exist AND suck all at once!
How fitting is it, though, that my current opponent, Shane Donovan, is now buddy-buddy with my last opponent? They're banding together to try and take down the force that is Team Wifey, and in the process he's developing a tiny boner for DD (I know, I know, I need to give the tiny boners thing a rest, but only once it stops amusing me).
At least Destiny was gracious enough to not babble inanely about her "glory," something that can't be said for Shane Donovan. Oh, but I want my gwowy, you stole my gwowy! Please. Is that all you have going for you? That you feel entitled to something you haven't earned? Uh, okay, let me know how that works out for you.
And what's this crap I hear about my being a scapegoat? What? Where? When? Whatchoo talkin' 'bout, Willis? I have no idea what you're getting at there, and frankly, I don't care, because it sounds like your excess of testosterone has gotten the better of you, your logic and your coherency.
I don't need your pity, Shaney-poo, I need you to shut up and accept that there is no more glory to be had for you. I'm no one's scapegoat, I will not be your stepping stone to the top, and I am not an easily tackled obstacle. Kindly get that through your fat head. As for my high perch... hey, I know glory and winning streaks doesn't last forever; I know you have to work for them, and that regardless, you're going to be knocked down eventually. The difference between us is that I know you have to work for it, and you have to be consistent, and that crapping on about it all is allegedly yours isn't what's going to earn it for you.
Think about it: I have to work twice as hard as morons like you, because I have the two assumptions following me around everywhere I go that, a) as a woman, I'm little more than an inferior cock receptacle, and b) my every success is somehow thanks to being Morgana's best friend.
Either way, I'm used to being written off and told I mean nothing to an opponent in the grand scheme of things, so I take it with a grain of salt. While we're writing things off, think about this: even if you do manage to take the TV Title from me, what do you think will happen after? I'll get another title, and then that title will become the second highest. And then you'll want that. And so on. Either way, I'm the one setting the precedents here, not you.
What I'm really shocked by is the backlash at my "Grammar Naziism." Even the ones who I didn't direct my lesson at were so offended, horrified and pissed off that they seem to have forgotten their own spelling! Julian Brown, for example - I'd reply to you and your disdain for my grammar-loving ways if the first word in your tirade against me didn't totally defy the very lesson in contractions that you clearly and admittedly read, but apparently didn't grasp, despite your fury over my nerve.
Destiny and Stevie Swing were also none too pleased, though why they care, I'm not sure. Are you guys seriously trying to hold it against me that I'm not a dumbass? Sorry, dears, but I like to think that in a professional setting, you might as well present yourself in at least a semi-professional manner, all personal quirks aside. Command of your language, or lack thereof, is not considered a personal quirk. Got it?
Once you people do get it, maybe we can talk then. Deal?