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2.
Nausea had become Jean's constant. Like her heartbeat, it was steady and thick. But not forever. Neither can last forever. Sigh… She walked, second beer in hand with her head swimming in pain and malnourishment, from the refrigerator to her chair by the table and carefully sat. She tapped the top of the can with her broken nail a few times before opening it. Feels wrong to use a broken nail but there's no sense in breaking another one. Nails are not tools. She set the beer down and looked at her outstretched hand. Long, slender… strong, even still. Like I was. Before. Before time and illness took from me. Before they ravaged… me. Jean curled her fingers into a tight ball, her fist shaking with rage. Or was this fear…? Damn it. She picked up the can, angled her glass, and poured the beer, listening to the half-melted ice from earlier crack and tink. She shook just enough salt into it and listened to the sound that made; a quiet fizz was the voice of receding foam. Should eat something. She took a timid taste of her beer and waited for the flames of liquid contact to sting and burn her sore. Just breathe. Just. Breathe. Before you know it, it will barely hurt anymore. All I do is hurt anymore.. Take another drink. Let it numb…
Jean eyed the silver cigarette case on top of the TV Guide. The case was open. It was full. She had, a few years back, switched from cigarettes to little cigars in an attempt to quit smoking altogether. That had been the plan, at least. 'Man makes plans and God laughs.' "True." she thought, solemnly. She reached for a cigar and paused, fingertips hovering but a centimeter above it- Not yet. I can still feel my mouth. It's throbbing. She had taken a solitary puff that morning and had opened a door to a new chamber of torture. Wait. Drink. It will help. … Help. Jean sucked in a quick breath before taking a swig of salted beer and clenched her jaw against the onslaught of a sensation that the word 'pain' could even begin to describe. This… This was beyond pain. This was Hell in cellular form.