03-13-2014, 09:27 AM
Reawakening Isn't Easy When You're Tired
Wednesday Night/Thursday Morning
So much can change between the closing of one's eyes and their opening again. When Amelia found that blanket in her closet she cried and cried and cried until she felt hollow, gutted. Empty.
When she opens her eyes again, she feels relief. And she feels clean, purified of the guilt and the self-doubt that clouded her sense of self in that moment. There is still hurt and there will still be hurt for a time to come, but it doesn't cripple her. It won't knock her to her knees again. She will recover and she will be stronger for all that's happened.
Her eyes open with an effort, the lashes crusted together with dried tears, the skin around them red and puffy and swollen. In the darkness of her basement bedroom with only a small, high set and narrow window to offer a view of outside it's difficult to tell the time. Has it been a moment? An hour? A day? Sid gets to her feet and looks out into her room which is so empty and void of personal effects still. Cecilia resting peacefully on her perch, heavy beak tucked over her shoulder, is the first sign that hardly any time has passed. The fact Sid didn't wake to find Frank hovering worriedly over her is the second. Her time in the place of her Avatar's making had seemed so long, a day at least, but hardly any time at all has passed.
She takes in a deep breath, and it seems to her she can still smell moss and crushed grass. The light around her seems to bend to a greenish cast, like sunlight through the thin membrane of a new spring leaf. Once she lets that breath out she looks back into the closet where she had her latest epiphany. Picking up the blanket crumpled on the floor, she looks at it a moment, at the colorful clouds of celestial gasses, the bright burn of distant stars. Rather than folding it up and putting it away again, Sid drapes it over the end of her bed. It was given to her by a very dear friend before she knew how much he meant to her, and despite what's happened between them she still loves. She has no regrets. It would be wrong to keep that hidden.
She makes a call before she finally climbs into her bed, not to the one she worries about but to another friend, someone who would be welcome. Then she sleeps the deepest, most restful sleep she's had in ages. As she drifts off Sera's words come to mind, and for the first time Sid actually believes them.
They're going to be just fine.
Wednesday Night/Thursday Morning
So much can change between the closing of one's eyes and their opening again. When Amelia found that blanket in her closet she cried and cried and cried until she felt hollow, gutted. Empty.
When she opens her eyes again, she feels relief. And she feels clean, purified of the guilt and the self-doubt that clouded her sense of self in that moment. There is still hurt and there will still be hurt for a time to come, but it doesn't cripple her. It won't knock her to her knees again. She will recover and she will be stronger for all that's happened.
Her eyes open with an effort, the lashes crusted together with dried tears, the skin around them red and puffy and swollen. In the darkness of her basement bedroom with only a small, high set and narrow window to offer a view of outside it's difficult to tell the time. Has it been a moment? An hour? A day? Sid gets to her feet and looks out into her room which is so empty and void of personal effects still. Cecilia resting peacefully on her perch, heavy beak tucked over her shoulder, is the first sign that hardly any time has passed. The fact Sid didn't wake to find Frank hovering worriedly over her is the second. Her time in the place of her Avatar's making had seemed so long, a day at least, but hardly any time at all has passed.
She takes in a deep breath, and it seems to her she can still smell moss and crushed grass. The light around her seems to bend to a greenish cast, like sunlight through the thin membrane of a new spring leaf. Once she lets that breath out she looks back into the closet where she had her latest epiphany. Picking up the blanket crumpled on the floor, she looks at it a moment, at the colorful clouds of celestial gasses, the bright burn of distant stars. Rather than folding it up and putting it away again, Sid drapes it over the end of her bed. It was given to her by a very dear friend before she knew how much he meant to her, and despite what's happened between them she still loves. She has no regrets. It would be wrong to keep that hidden.
She makes a call before she finally climbs into her bed, not to the one she worries about but to another friend, someone who would be welcome. Then she sleeps the deepest, most restful sleep she's had in ages. As she drifts off Sera's words come to mind, and for the first time Sid actually believes them.
They're going to be just fine.