My eyes remain locked on the newspaper in my trembling hands. I'm over thinking it, of course I am. This is all a joke, and my inability to contact Kara is a part of it. Just something to welcome me home, if a little morbid. All I have to do is think rationally, and relax. Take deep breaths. She'll be back in a few minutes, I'll jokingly tell her I hate her, and we'll share a laugh. That's what we do. It's normal. That's it; the part I have to keep reminding myself for this whole situation to make any sense at all. It's normal. Not normal in the minds of anyone else aside from Kara and I, but within the context of our relationship, it's as normal as idle chitchat. More so, even. Yet still, even with this logical rationale, the uneasiness; the queasy, sick feeling in the pit of my stitched up stomach remains.

Matter of fact, it intensifies.

I feel like I should feel the stitches, but I don't. Could be just the painkillers.

That train of thought is cut off by the sound of footsteps. Echoing; nearer, then further like a demented demonstration of the Doppler Effect. Not outside the apartment, no. Inside. That can't be; that can't possibly be! I'm the only one here. That illusion is shattered when I see a figure step into the main room from the kitchen. Of course I couldn't just be hearing things.


"What the fuck are you staring at?" she asks, as if somehow I was in the wrong for wondering how someone who I've only talked to with less than stellar results got into my house. Something tells me she's used to doing things exactly like this. I however, am not too well acquainted with random appearances, so all I do is stare, eyes wide and mouth agape. Dropping the newspaper to the side, I pull the blanket covering my ankles upwards towards my chest, looking Diaz right in the eye and without saying a word.

"Well?"

She didn't even wait to swallow the chunk of banana in her mouth before spitting the question, quite literally, at me. Chunks of the fruit fly from her mouth and scatter across the carpet.

"I'm staring at a nutcase who doesn't know that it's rude for someone to talk with their mouth full."

"Cute. No really, it is. I know etiquette; I just don't care for it."

"Well. Isn't that lovely?"

"Shut up. Save the sarcasm too."

"Coming from you of all people? Why, that's positively rich! Any other gems of self contradictions you wanna say? Maybe, call me crazy or something?"

"Seriously girl, don't tempt me."

Okay, she definitely wasn't joking around. That much I get. With her banana free hand, she waves me over to where she is. Slowly, reluctantly, I toss the blanket to the side where it covered the newspaper and trudge barefoot across the carpet until I'm finally standing right at her side. Then, she smiles at me. A self congratulatory smirk that makes my skin crawl. That I can feel. Wait, that means the painkillers might be wearing off!

"Why are you here?" I finally ask, almost embarrassed that it took me this long. Laughing, she places one finger to my lips; the universal sign for "shut the fuck up" I'm sure.

"You don't want to know that."

"If I didn't, I wouldn't have asked it, now would I?"

"I don't know. Maybe you're the type of girl who gets off to the sound of her own voice so she just says stuff without a mental filter. Anything, everything. The stupid, babbling bullshit comes outta your mouth and then you go and touch yourself over it. You could be one of those types. What I do know is that the answer to why I'm here would only cause more questions than answers, and I don't feel like spending my time lecturing you."

"Alright. That's a long winded, insulting way of saying that I can't handle the truth."

"That's my specialty," she says with a smile, feigning innocence.

"I'll bet. Thanks, by the way."

"Hm?"

"Thank you for inadvertently giving me the reason that you're here. I should've seen it coming a mile away, but I didn't."

"Okay, slow down there Speed Racer. What the fuck are you even on about?"

"You aren't real! I'm imagining you, for some reason."

Yes, for some reason. Some reason that I didn't quite understand, this vivid hallucination of Jessie Diaz was standing right next to me. The falsely innocent, childlike smile on her face turning into a slight scowl as she puts her hand on my shoulder and grips it tightly.

"Right. I'm just a figment of your imagination. Now, tell me something, because now you've piqued my curiosity; why exactly would you be imagining me of all people?"

"I, I don't know..."

"Of course you don't! You wanna know why you don't know?"

With a gulp, I nod my head.

"Simple. It's because you aren't."

"Bullshit!" I exclaim before my brain thinks to shut me up. Her head tilts to the side and she cocks an eyebrow, before letting out a chuckle and tightening her grip on my shoulder and shoving me backwards just a tad.

"That it? No reasoning, just 'bullshit'? Come on Sherlock, tell me how what I'm saying is bullshit. I implore you."

The flatness in her voice tells me this is rhetorical. Something she's only asking to make a point; seeing as I have no real evidence that she's lying aside from my own disbelief in any alternative. So, I stay silent. I don't even dare open my mouth as she stares hard at me, mockingly begging me for an answer with her eyes. Her grip on my shoulder remains, unfaltering even with my subtle attempts and breaking free.

"Right. Fuckin' called it.

Once more, she shoves me back. This time however, she lets go of my shoulder and I stumble back into the wall, smacking the back of my head off the plaster. Even after hitting the wall, I don't make an effort to move back to her. Instead, I press the palms of my hands against the wall and stay, still as a statue. Her eyes dart from mine and to my midsection.

"Lift your shirt," she says with vague disinterest, again as if this whole scenario was a routine.

I hesitate; well, that's not entirely accurate. I don't hesitate; I refuse. Without saying a word, I shoot her a glace, a glare is more like it, and keep my hands against the wall to give me some grasp on reality.

"I wasn't asking."

"What do you wanna see anyway? My bullet wound?" I shoot back, almost snarling.

"Yeah, something like that."

I could tell from the look on her face, that no matter how much I persisted, in the end it was going to happen anyway.

So, I lift up my shirt just a little bit, to where the bullet hole should be. I say should be, because it isn't there. Eyes widened in disbelief, I slowly look up from my exposed stomach to the coldly smiling face of the woman standing across the room from me.

"Alright. Now, where is this wound you were speaking about?"

"I, uh, I don't know."

That statement right there captured how I felt about all of these happenings. Right down to the attempts at rationalizing subtly hinted at with the stammering. Nothing. I got nothing.

"Right. Because unlike me, that's all your imagination."

"What?"

"Oh my god, do I have to spell it out for you? You weren't shot, idiot."

"You're lying."

"No, that's you. To yourself and to me. How about you cut the bullshit and shut the fuck up before more lies come outta your mouth. I am trying to help you. Oh, and for the love of all that's holy, shut the fuck up, Winston."

"Winston?"

"Disregard. He's like the Wizard, pay no attention to the man behind the screen type deal."

"But you are--"

"Yeah, well I kinda have to. Long story. Not important, really not fucking important. As in, don't fucking ask again."

"Alright. You never answered my question, though. Why are you here?"

"I did answer that. Remember? You can't handle the truth, yadda yadda?"

"Right. So, I'm supposed to just stand here like it's normal that someone I barely know is standing in my living room?"

"Preferably, yeah. Don't worry, unless you have any more questions that won't end up with the answers you want, we'll be out of here soon."

"Huh?"

"Alright, let me talk slower. You. And. Me. Are. Going. Somewhere. Far. Away. From. Here."

"Should I even ask why?"

"No."

"And if I say n--"


That was either the sound of her knuckles, or my jaw. Not sure which.