The Fuzzy End of the Lollipop

The Fuzzy End of the Lollipop: Chapter Three

Sally looked in the mirror and saw a cluster of angry-looking spots on the side of her face. They weren't the normal spots that decorated her forehead on the first week of every month; they were blistered and dark red. As she grazed her hand over their scabby surface, her stomach lurched and her thoughts leapfrogged to the worst-case scenario: her new mattress must be riddled with fleas. She reached for her phone and rapidly googled what flea bites looked like. The results were stomach-churning. Blotchy, putrid images imprinted themselves onto her eyeballs and the further she scrolled down the harder it was to look away.

Her Google diagnosis had given her a mere two hours until she looked like a medieval plague victim. After that, it wouldn't be long before her face peeled off and her heart stopped beating. Sally dragged her eyes away from the screen and compared her face with the blistered corpses that shone through her phone. The spots stared back stubbornly but instead of picking them off one by one she took a deep breath and attempted to soothe herself. Okay, it's okay. Everyone at work seems nice. They will understand. Everyone has off days, right?

She rummaged through her makeup bag and layered on the concealer, trying hard to breathe through the panic, but all her reassurances were soon smothered by nasty alternatives. What if her new colleagues realised her spots were flea bites? What if they were so disgusted that they refused to go near her? What if they laughed about her behind her back? These vile thoughts crawled into her head, squirming and worming their way in. Scenario after scenario flashed through her mind until Sally screwed up her eyes and dug her nails into the side of her hand. Her thoughts retreated instantly and she forced herself to stand up and walk to the bathroom.
As she lifted the toilet lid she immediately stepped back in horror. The bowl was filled with brown, seething water, threatening to overflow at any moment. What the hell was happening this morning? Sally moaned as she grappled with her phone and texted her landlord. Their response was that, as they had had no issues like this before, she would be expected to pay for a plumber. Sally knew there was no way in hell she could afford that. She had blown all her money on the deposit for the room and wouldn't get her first pay-cheque until the end of the month. Quickly, she decided her only option was to unclog the toilet herself. After skipping through a short YouTube video, she emptied a bottle of washing-up liquid into the toilet and poured hot water over the gurgling mess. She then fished behind the toilet, grabbed the bog brush, and began to plunge for her life. She pumped away, staring determinedly at the ceiling before catching a glimpse of the Oral-B clock. It was only thirty minutes before Sally had to be at work. Plunging more violently now, she risked looking into the toilet, the boggy water had thankfully begun to drop. Adrenaline surged through her body and with it came the familiar toxic thoughts that joined her whenever she was at her weakest. If she was late for work all of her colleagues would think she was an idiot, she would lose her job and never know what it would be like to be friends with Maya. If she was unable to unblock the toilet, all her flatmates would hate her and force her to move out. Her failure to leave home for the second time would cause her mum to get sick again and she would spend the rest of her life looking after her.

These thoughts invaded her mind one after the other until a loud gurgling sound snapped her attention back to the toilet. Finally, the water in the bowl was back to its normal level. Thank God. Sally sighed as she washed her hands, keeping her eyes diverted away from the mirror; another look at her spots would only make things worse.

The clock now told her she should have left ages ago. Quickly, she threw everything she needed into a bag, pulled her unbrushed hair into a bun, and tried to leave the house, but her thoughts had built up too much momentum. They rampaged around her brain dragging up the dregs of Sally's unconscious, forcing her to return to the kitchen four times to double, triple and quadruple check that the stove had been turned off.

After the fourth time, Stefan stepped in. "What is wrong with you?" he asked as she turned the knobs on the oven anticlockwise three times.

"Nothing," sang Sally through gritted teeth.