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In which I project my chronic illness flares onto Kipperlilly Copperkettle, and then I let her let it out.
As said in the summary, this work is largely inspired by my own battles with chronic illness flare-ups. The description in this work is only one of the many forms they can take, but it is also a relatively common one (usually I experience something similar to this every two months or so). The point of this work is not to say that my life is always miserable, or that I do not find it worth it to continue going. The point is, instead, to show a transparent view of some of the worst parts of it, especially as it pertains to isolation. The worst parts are not just the pain, but the lack of anyone to endure it with. It's far, far easier to cope with excruciating pain when there is someone there to remind you that it won't last forever, and that they aren't going anywhere, and that there is something beyond.
~~~
This fic was partially inspired by "Victim" Impact Statement by @kipperlillyforpresident on Tumblr, but mostly in the sense that it inspired me to write a fic about Kipperlilly at all. The subjectmatter is very different. Because of that, I don't find it fitting to add it as a parent work.
Kipperlilly’s experience of Hell wasn’t fit for the movies. There were no whips across her back or stones digging into her body. The heat wasn’t even that unbearable. Annoying enough to never go by unnoticed, sure, but nothing she couldn’t handle. She was used to the discomfort, at this point.
What she couldn’t bear-- what ate her at every moment-- was that she was alone. Not an alone that could be rectified, either. This alone was a dungeon, a pit, an all-consuming whirl of time and space. She felt like the only person in any universe, in any realm, even though she knew that she wasn’t. She couldn’t have been. She remembered her life, her family, her friends party members. She remembered Jace and Porter, and Ruben’s uncle Henry. It wasn’t possible that they were all gone.
Still, she found the thought easy to circle around. What if it really was just her out here? No gods or goddesses, no hells, no punishments. Just her, stuck in this shitty cave.
The cave could easily have been all there was, after all, because there was no way out. It was a craggy, oblong shape with hot stones that only had rounded edges. If she wanted to pretend killing herself was possible, she couldn’t do it quickly. She had no access to anything sharp, or anything poisonous, or anything else at all.
But there wasn’t really any need for anything else, anyway. There was no killing herself here. Kipperlilly never ate, never drank, never slept. She still experienced the sensations of hungry, thirsty, and tired, but they never ended her life, just caused her agony. These ugly sensations came in semi-predictable waves that might have lasted either minutes or days depending on how you counted.
It was in one of these waves is where she found herself currently-- lying on the hot stone, with a glossy look in her eye.
She was unable to move except to take in heavy breaths that felt impossibly shallow, and to occasionally wail aloud as the pain in her gut became unbearable again. It was far too wide to be a sharp pain, but it wasn’t anywhere near dull, either. It was a constant blunt-force impact inside of her, like her organs were going to burst.
This is what they told me giving birth would be like, she thought, in one of the moments that she was able to think at all. Then, as if listening, her body shook with another burst of pain-- this time into her crotch-- trying to expell waste that wasn’t there. She forced herself onto her elbows and knees, hoping in vain to find any position that wasn’t agony. Her voice was pulled out from her without her consent, screeching and moaning, and her hands cupped her face as gently as they could muster. Her dehydration made it impossible to cry, but her eyes pleaded for the release of tears nonetheless.
This was the worst of it, she knew. Soon (if you could call it soon) there would be a relief for her. The blunt-force trauma would pretend, for a moment, to subside, and be replaced with the everpresent dull ache. She would stand up and pace around her tiny world, letting her thoughts consume her instead of her body.
Her hands were wrapped around her sides now, pressing into the worst of the pain just to feel some slight release when she let go. Similarly, her mind had once again wrapped around the worst thoughts she ever came to in this place: You did this to yourself, and I want my Momma.
She pulled and pleaded and begged the ringing air to pretend for her to be someone, anyone with a weight and a voice that she could lean on. Her throat mocked her with the want for tears again as she rolled back over, still gripping herself tight.
She inchwormed her way to the rock she called a sitting place, knowing she looked ridiculous while she did it. But another worst-of-it wracked her body before she could force herself to truly care about visuals, and she twisted around on herself until she thought there was no air left between her limbs.
It was rare that Kipperlilly ever tried to speak during these bouts, but when she did they got mixed up in her more animal noises, becoming nothing comprehensible to anyone who might have existed to hear. In a lighter moment, she pressed out an “Mmmmmmmm,” that she meant to mean “Momma.” She could have forced herself to include other people, but really, there was no one but her.
In a moment of clarity, she was able to picture her curly blonde hair, her wide face, her full figure. She smiled at her, pretending the too-hot ground was pulling her into a hug. Momma, Momma, Momma, she repeated desperately in her head, as if it would make her appear.
Three thoughts dominated. You’re alone!, I want my Momma!, and then out loud-- catching in her throat like a dry sob, but recognizable:
“Please, oh god, shut up! Shut up! I can’t take this anymore! Just shut up!” And at this, she threw her fists at the ground.
The resulting noise was louder than it should have been. So loud, in fact, that for a moment Kipperlilly could forget her own agony. It echoed on something beyond her encasing walls.
There was something beyond her encasing walls.
She pushed up onto her knees, groaning at the effort, and slowly, slowly, she was able to make her way to a corner. There was no discernible plan to be had in the radio static of her mind, but she was able to distract herself with this effort, so for the moment she didn’t particularly care.
She used the wall to push herself up, at the same time trying to feel for any difference in the stone. Her legs swayed underneath the weight of the rest of her, her head trying desperately to regain balance. She felt like she was going to hurl.
Okay, think, she said to herself, knowing how desperate of a measure that really was, what can I do to hear the noise again?
Between deep breaths and trying to stay upright she tried to force thoughts, but they wouldn’t come. She felt so stupid, but conceded there was no way to draw new inferences for the moment. So she went simpler.
How did I hear it the first time? I made a loud noise. Good, I can do that again.
She mustered up all of her energy and proceeded to yell at the top of her lungs. By the end of it she had seemingly found new energy from nowhere, because she began to scream so hard it could have shredded her vocal chords. Again, her body ached to cry, but nothing happened. Instead she gathered herself and screamed again. And again, and again after that. At some point she forgot what she had been screaming for and it just became for… everything. For all the pain and the misery that she’d gone through, both here and the place she was before. She screamed because it was for nothing; it had resulted in nothing. She had wasted her time and her energy and poured all of herself into something that only ever created this awful, endless pain. She screamed because she had been made to do this. She had wanted help, but the adults on her life either didn’t know what to do or didn’t care to do it-- which of those it was didn’t really matter. She screamed because she had trusted Porter, had trusted Jace, had trusted Jawbone. She screamed because she had trusted herself. And she screamed because no one was coming.
She was too enraptured to realize what had come from her screaming until it was all over. When she was again slumped on the floor too exhausted to move, she found herself looking up. Not an up that could be contained, either. This was a cavernous, continuous up, an all-consuming whirl of time and space. It was everything there was. But most importantly, it was open. And there was something beyond.