10-24-2020, 09:07 PM
He spoke a name, and it sank like an echo, but the wary way he said it was so unlike Patricus’s certainty. For a moment she was charmed enough to be about to repeat it, like maybe wrapped in the familiarity of her own voice it would anchor something inside, but then he continued and the spell shattered. Suddenly it was all too much, toomuchtoomuchtoomuch. She swallowed, shook her head in answer, but did not linger on the memories prompted by the question as they swelled alongside the pressure behind her eyes. Or tried not to. The heady rush of dizziness crashed right over like a wave, probably from the movement (stupid), and like a leaky vessel she was capsizing.
The doctor turned to look at the gold-eyed man with a pinched frown, like he suspected a new cause to her burgeoning panic. Or maybe it was a look that vindicated existing prejudice. The woman’s abrupt intention to depart only seemed further proof of something amiss -- and there was something amiss, but not the something the doctor clearly thought. Desperate for the relief of paper, Thalia sought for a glimpse of her bag frantically now.
Why had the V--, why had he asked that question?
Why couldn’t the doctor just leave?
Everything smelled medical as said doctor instead began to sort through supplies to clean and patch her head. Panic widened Thalia’s eyes, because she knew that was going to take too long. Her skin prickled, thinking of Eha’s cottage and her ragged nails; thinking of Aylin’s cloying concern, and the meds -- and Yana, of all things, like every uninvited memory swirled like mud in churned water. A hand pressed against her knee, and she jumped from the touch, flinching away. The doctor leaned close, his voice pitched low and concerned, clearly intending to impart itself to her ears alone. “If you didn’t fall, did he hurt you?”
“No,” she said, dismayed by the accusation. She did not whisper as he had; by now her focus had gone, and the world was wavering at its edges; she could feel her control slipping. Then she spied a pen in his jacket pocket, reached for it without thinking. “I was swimming. There are too many tourists during the day. And women aren’t supposed to go near the Rock.” When her fingers wrapped tight as though clutching a talisman rather than an unremarkable biro, the first glimmers of relief lured. The words came out a rush. She wasn’t sure what her legs would do, but she shifted to stand, half tangled in the blanket.
“I need to use the bathroom first,” she said. Her pulse burst in her head for a dangerous moment, but she did not fall. The blanket puddled. She cast her gaze for the most likely door, and stumbled through it. Then, alone, she wiped the heel of her hand against the tears leaked from the corners of her eyes. Most of the wall was tiled. She sought the plaster, pulling the pen’s lid off with her teeth. The first mark sank deepest relief.
The doctor turned to look at the gold-eyed man with a pinched frown, like he suspected a new cause to her burgeoning panic. Or maybe it was a look that vindicated existing prejudice. The woman’s abrupt intention to depart only seemed further proof of something amiss -- and there was something amiss, but not the something the doctor clearly thought. Desperate for the relief of paper, Thalia sought for a glimpse of her bag frantically now.
Why had the V--, why had he asked that question?
Why couldn’t the doctor just leave?
Everything smelled medical as said doctor instead began to sort through supplies to clean and patch her head. Panic widened Thalia’s eyes, because she knew that was going to take too long. Her skin prickled, thinking of Eha’s cottage and her ragged nails; thinking of Aylin’s cloying concern, and the meds -- and Yana, of all things, like every uninvited memory swirled like mud in churned water. A hand pressed against her knee, and she jumped from the touch, flinching away. The doctor leaned close, his voice pitched low and concerned, clearly intending to impart itself to her ears alone. “If you didn’t fall, did he hurt you?”
“No,” she said, dismayed by the accusation. She did not whisper as he had; by now her focus had gone, and the world was wavering at its edges; she could feel her control slipping. Then she spied a pen in his jacket pocket, reached for it without thinking. “I was swimming. There are too many tourists during the day. And women aren’t supposed to go near the Rock.” When her fingers wrapped tight as though clutching a talisman rather than an unremarkable biro, the first glimmers of relief lured. The words came out a rush. She wasn’t sure what her legs would do, but she shifted to stand, half tangled in the blanket.
“I need to use the bathroom first,” she said. Her pulse burst in her head for a dangerous moment, but she did not fall. The blanket puddled. She cast her gaze for the most likely door, and stumbled through it. Then, alone, she wiped the heel of her hand against the tears leaked from the corners of her eyes. Most of the wall was tiled. She sought the plaster, pulling the pen’s lid off with her teeth. The first mark sank deepest relief.
![[Image: thal-banner-scaled.jpg]](http://thefirstage.org/wp-content/uploads/2023/08/thal-banner-scaled.jpg)