Anxiety [Molly Mood]
#1
April 30th, 2014

Soon as Molly had closed her apartment door behind an Undead man she'd seen out she slumped into one of the two armchairs in her living room. If she'd been entertaining a man with a pulse then the chair would still be warm from the heat of him-- this having been the chair Flood was seated in several minutes before. She didn't turn on any electronics, no television or laptop to keep her company in the quiet of her home. Instead she was left to her own thoughts; they had been vying for attention for some time now anyways.

Eventually, after finishing her glass of wine, Molly went to bed.

Getting to sleep was difficult. She tossed and turned, and was only eventually able to drift after she'd cracked her window and kicked the comforter down off her body.

The sheets that covered her, as well as the night clothes, would be twisted with sweat and discomfort three hours after Molly had fallen to unconsciousness. Behind closed eyes, within the dreams of a woman who dappled too much in a world not her own, worries and stresses and horrors made nightmarish shows to put on display for their owner. Images of bodies torn asunder, reconstructed into household items to be neatly displayed in a room of red. The clenching terror of being stalked and not knowing how dangerous the thing following you was, the stomach-sick that came from being on edge for your life accompanied these pictures, spaced with pale-faced and sharp-teethed beings whose faces were familiar and then turned to something awful.

Molly woke all at once, saved from the swift death of having her throat ripped in her dreams. Upon finding the safety of consciousness and her apartment around her once more, she did three things:

Cried.
Threw up.
Made an appointment for herself in her phone calendar.

And then, with the help of a second glass of wine, Molly fell back to sleep.

May 2nd, 2014

It was mid-afternoon and Molly was standing in line at the pharmacy, hands clinging to the strap of her purse to give them a place to be while she waited her turn. Her prescription had already been faxed over for the pharmacists to fill, so by the time she reached the counter the transaction was quick and pleasant enough both.

"Name and date of birth?"
"Molly Toombs, June 1st, 1988."
"Let's see..... The diazepam?"
"Yes ma'am."

The pharmacist went to fetch the prescription from the storage bins for filled bottles and tubes and other such containers, and Molly pressed her lips together and sighed but was quiet while waiting, not glancing over her shoulder to see if anyone behind her recognized what that word meant.

She'd blamed the stress on her involvement in a recent explosion, possibly a bomb, still under investigation. Details carefully protected from the media on account of the curious circumstances and the condition of the body found on scene. Molly had been present for the whole thing, one of the first to see the gruesome remains of a man murdered by something yet to be decided whether it was human or animal yet. Between this and the bombings around town it wasn't difficult to convince her general practicioner to get her a script.

Acute Stress Disorder, they were considering it.

Molly thought they weren't too far off point, really. She was acutely stressed, but not so much by the bombings or the body that she and a firewoman had found on scene. It was the doubt, the manipulation, the puppets and string pulling and threats and promises, the shadows and the knowledge of what lurked in them and what they would be happy to do to her for all of the secrets that she kept in her mind.

"That's twenty dollars with your copay, miss," the pharmacist snapped Molly out of her thoughts when she returned, and the nurse smiled politely and handed over her debit card and identification both.

Tonight would be the first in some time that she made it through to bed without spending any time feeling her chest crush with the weight of the worry she kept.
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