Sunday Scribblings #164: Worry

Another Sunday Scribblings prompt coming right up.

This week:
Are you a worrier? Know one? Is there a particular worry that you can't shake? Ways of coping with worrying?

Here goes: 

I dropped my books onto the bed as I walked into my room, barely registering the mail my mother had left on the pillow. I concentrated, instead, on the most recent text message from Dylan that kept running through my head: "Jack was hit by a drunk s.o.b. last night. He's at Fairview Ridges. Call me." I wasn't sure what to do, and the sharp ache in my chest didn't help to ease the worry. The text message had been sent en masse to all his friends, which made the news only harder to handle. I was still furious about our breakup, the heat that had lasted in my cheeks for weeks after learning about his kiss with Jo a testament to my inexcusable humiliation. But something--perhaps the tightly clenched muscles in my back or the lightness of an out-of-body experience--pushed me past my distaste. Jack was my friend and confidante, the guy that spoke French like it was urban slang, the football player with a tattoo of his sister's name on his shoulder. I was sure I would have an ulcer by the end of the day, already overwhelmed with the crumbling pieces of the situation.

I called then, called because I knew it was something that I needed to do and something that Jack would want me to do. 

"Hey, Em."

Don't call me that. "Hey." My voice sounded distant, not because it was a foreigner's voice, but because it was the voice of the me I had wanted to avoid: carefully hidden panic made of layers of lies to cushion it.

Nothing that I usually write actually answers the prompt; again, it's an image that came to mind and a quick exercise on Friday afternoons. It's my sixth one! Like I said last week, I enjoy these.

I've updated my novel-in-progress.

I wish I had more to share, but I don't. Everything seems to be at a very good place right now.