Wicked Roommates (MxM/MxF) TEMP HIATUS

4. Happened Before

Freya

The sound of my phone...it's ringing. Distant at first but unrelenting, sound growing louder and louder as I'm roused from my sleep. I groan, pulling the covers up to my nose, hesitant to leave the warmth of my snuggly bed. The ringing stops, but soon begins again.

Ugh. I wipe my eyes, yawning, sticking only my hand out from the comforter to answer. I fumble around blindly for a bit trying to find it, and I'm so unusually drowsy. It feels like I've been drugged; maybe I took sleep meds last night, but I can't remember. I slip my phone under the comforter just as the call ends, but within seconds another call comes in—but all I manage to do is blink sheepishly at the bright light of my phone as it illuminates my little cave. With a loud yawn, I rub the sleep from my eyes, vision soon sharpening, and that's when the time hits me like a brick.

2:45pm

I bolt upright in bed, gasping for air. "Shit" I curse, tumbling out of bed in a horrified daze as I fumble to unlock my phone. I hit the number that's been calling me, heart racing.
I'm screaming internally as I pace the worn carpet in my bedroom, listening to the dial tone as I wait for her to pick up. I put it on speaker, dying inside as I scroll past twelve missed calls starting at 7:30am.

Oh my god. What's wrong with me, did I not set my usual alarm?

"Freya girl, I worry sick about you!" The sound of my boss, Mara's heavily accented voice comes through the receiver, but her tone is thick with concern, not anger. I've been working for her two years now.

"Miss Mara I'm so sorry! I-I don't know what happened, I swear I set my alarm...I swear!"
I sputter apologetically, stomach in knots, words coming out clumsy and slurred...what's wrong with me?

"Freya, child! You worry me sick! I almost call police to check you...you never late, never miss work." Hearing her concern makes me want to cry, because sweet Miss Mara seems to care more about me than my own mother does. I try to catch my breath, finding myself super dizzy and unsteady, so I plop down on my bed, sucking in air as I try to wrack my brain for an explanation.

"I don't know Mara, I just, I don't know what came over me...I feel strange, like, drugged. I don't know. All I remember is trying to go to sleep last night, and my neighbor kept me up per usual. Nothing out of the ordinary, but everything is kind of fuzzy...my voice trails off.
I stretch my neck a bit, finding it's super tight around my right shoulder and wince.

Everything hurts and aches—is this what arthritis feels like? Cause if so, it fucking sucks.
Mara exhales on the other end of the line, "hmm, I think maybe you need doctor, don't come work today. You worry me—never sleeping, always, always working," clicking her tongue in concern.

I drop my face into my free hand, wincing again as the movement alone just pisses my neck off. "Mara you know I can't miss work, I just can't..." I groan, feeling some tears start to well. Money is the bane of my existence, always has been ever since I left home at 18, and I've never known what it's like to not have to worry.
I live paycheck to paycheck, and it's as depressing as it sounds.

"You go doctor, that is final. I pay you 8 hours work-time. " Mara orders, finality in her voice. My heart drops, feeling wholly guilty but grateful that she'd do such a thing for me. Mara isn't made of money either, she's running a small cleaning business in order to support five children, and she's only been in-country for about four years. Times are tough, and the economy sucks literal ass right now. None of us have time to be out sick, missing work.

"Mara you can't do that..." I protest feebly, but she cuts me off.

"My money, my choice. Don't argue with me girl, please tell me what the doctor say, no go. Talk later." She hangs up the phone before I can get another word in, and a melancholy smile spreads across my face. Miss Mara reminds me of my Ima, and she was more of a mother to me than the woman who birthed me ever was. My mom failed me, but thankfully I had a grandmother, my Ima, to step in. If she were alive still, she'd be hounding me to get seen just like Miss Mara.