Jillian Part 14 (The End!)

(Author's note: You'll notice there are two endings. That's right, boys and girls, choose your own adventure. I wrote one to keep in line with the assignment and to honestly try to tie up whatever loose ends I could, while hopefully adding something to keep the reader reading. The other ending, well, the other is what I REALLY wanted to write. So choose whichever one makes you happy.)

ENDING ONE:

Sometimes she was so jealous of Sabrina that she wanted to scream. They'd both had crazy upbringings, both had horrible things happen to them, and yet—Sabrina had somehow managed to put herself back together, and all Anna could do was fall further and further apart. She reached out and took the mug in her hands, the warm ceramic heating her rain soaked skin.

“I still can't find Lady Pussycat.” That wasn't what she had meant to say, but those were the first words out of her mouth. She forced herself to smile at Sabrina, to act like it didn't matter to her, like this was some sort of cavalier game, but her attempt at a smile only looked like a grimace.

“Anna--” Sabrina stopped herself, biting down on her perfectly pink lower lip. She clearly wanted to object to Anna's hunt for the mysterious madame, but knew that it wasn't her place to butt in. “What else? I know you're holding back.” She reached out, grasping Anna's knee firmly.

Anna was grateful for the contact. It was a lifeline, something drawing her in, connecting her to society, showing her that at least someone cared about her enough to reach out and touch her without wanting anything in return. “I'm pregnant.”

Sabrina's face registered shock, which slowly morphed into concern. “Honey, are you sure? Have you been to the doctor's and been tested there?”

Anna shook her head stubbornly. Sabrina knew she didn't have the money for that sort of thing. “Sabrina, this isn't like the last time, when I had that false positive. I've taken like, five tests.”

“But remember what the OBGYN said? You had that false positive because of your anti-psychotic meds, remember?” She squeezed Anna's knee reassuringly.

“Sabrina! I said it's not fucking like that this time! This time it's for real, I know it. I can feel it, growing inside of me. Under my skin. Like an alien.” Anna looked back up at her friend worriedly, with dark shadows under her eyes that showed she hadn't slept in a long, long time.

“I'm sure you're right, Anna.” Sabrina said soothingly. “How about you stay here for the night and tomorrow I'll take you to that women's clinic downtown so you can get some prenatal vitamins, okay?” Along with a real pregnancy test.

“Thank you, Sabrina.” Anna's voice had grown small, like a child who is falling asleep in their chair but won't yet admit to being ready for bed.

“I'll go make an appointment for you right now. Drink your coffee. And take your meds.” Sabrina stood, and then leaned down, giving Anna a warm hug. “We'll get this all sorted out. I promise.”

ALTERNATE ENDING:

Harold Bloom flipped the typewritten pages closed with disgust. He didn't know why he'd ever even opened this manuscript to begin with. He'd been on his way back home, walking down the street after stopping to buy a bottle of scotch when that nutty old lady had rushed up to him, grabbing him by the lapels.

“His blue eyes were like lasers in the night! Like lasers in the night!” She'd shoved the stack of pages into his bag, before declaring again, “Mark my words! Like lasers in the night!” She'd rushed off down the street again before he could even think of a way to respond.

They really needed to clean this city up.

He sat back in his well padded chair and took a puff on his cigar, slowly shaking the ice cubes in his empty glass.

It wasn't that the writing was complete garbage. It was just that there were so many voices, and so many plot knots. Damn, there were so many plot knots. They just kept springing up every three or four paragraphs, like the writer had no clue what had happened before that paragraph or what would happen after.

Schizophrenia. Or multiple personality disorder. That was the only possible way that poor old woman could have written something so insane.

Usually Harold would be angrier about something like this. He would rail and rage and write a scathing review in the New Yorker about how the riffraff on the streets needed to keep their creativity to themselves. But tonight, old age and fine scotch seemed to have softened his rough edges. He glanced down at the title page.

“Debauchery at the Golden Cherry Inn. A Tale by Miss Jean Brodie, in her prime.” What kind of nom de plume is that? Further proof that the woman had serious mental issues. Miss Jean Brodie, indeed.

He picked up the sheaf of papers and spun his chair around, dropping them unceremoniously into the raging fire, where they belonged. He then turned back to his desk, and picked up a book resting on the corner; it was by his favorite author. Himself.

He opened the cover, and began to read.