Title: "The Spin Cycle"
Author: Mala
E-mail: malisita@yahoo.com
Fandom: "Dead Like Me"
Rating/Classification: PG-13, second person pov.
Disclaimer: Nope. Don't own her. Showtime, etc.
Summary: A filler ficlet for the Pilot episode. George sorts out her laundry.

You put too much detergent in with the sheets...so they make an itch travel all over your body after you've been lying down for fifteen minutes or so. Your mom never put in too much. She's almost so compulsively anal that she shakes out a few grains if it goes over the fill line of the plastic scoop. Not you, though...no. You just want to make sure you washed away the suspicious stains left by B. Moore, who'll be sleeping in a pine box and not his bed after tonight.

You're not sure you'll sleep at all. Not with the itching.

And the fact that you're, forever, going to be known as the "Toilet Seat Girl."

Mason is like one of those annoying guys from high school who shoots spit wads at the teacher's back every time she's at the chalkboard. Who shows off for the freshman girls by walking quarters across his knuckles or hitting the soda machine "just so" and popping out a Dr. Pepper. He's ultra cool in his own mind, unfortunately hot in yours, and he and Betty have christened you "Toilet Seat Girl."

Great. Just what every newly dead girl needs to have. A constant reminder of how totally pathetic and unromantic her far-too-early-demise was.

You couldn't get hit by a bus. No. Or die of boredom while filing.

It had to be a flaming toilet seat.

You'd like to strangle the graveling who caused it to detach and land on you.

They look like a cross between monkeys and dinosaurs. Ugly little bastards with all those teeth. Disintegrating like black powder after you blink.

They make you itch, too.

But not in a way that speaks of your lack of mad domestic skillz.

Just in a way that speaks of things you can't change.

Like death.

Yours. Other people's.

Betty said it was a "destiny thing." Why you? Why is it *your* destiny to squat in a dead person's apartment, sleep on their freshly-washed sheets, and pop out souls like somebody playing a cosmic game of Tag? You always hated Tag. And now Rube keeps slapping you on the back saying, "Peanut, you're it."

"Peanut", you think, might be worse than "Toilet Seat Girl." Because it's sweet. And it makes you think he gives a shit.

Nobody gives a shit.

Least of all you.

Maybe that's why you're here.

Because only people who care get to live or die.

Next time...you'll shake out a few grains of Cheer if it goes over the fill line.

But you're pretty sure you'll still itch.

--end--

June 30, 2003.



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