04-15-2020, 08:59 PM
She was tired yet dare not sleep. The guest room was dark now, the cottage around her quiet, and she sat nestled in the blankets and pillows Eha had arranged for her. The soft glow of her wallet lit her face. Aylin would only worry, and in all honestly the friends she could confide in numbered few. She had spent years ensuring only the most ephemeral of connections, terrified every time her sketchbooks began to unravel truths she had no way of knowing about the people she cared for.
@"Nox" Hey. I don’t think I’m going to be able to make opening night. Won’t bore you with the strange, sure you have enough of your own ;) I’ll call soon, kay? I want to hear more about the new crush x
She set the wallet aside and tucked her chin onto her knees. The cuts and scrapes she had awoken to that morning still stung, and her hand ached something fierce, but it was not pain keeping her up. Something heavy lodged in her chest, a familiar burden; one that had been brewing for days seeking outlet. Had she been home it was the sort of night she would have shut herself in the studio, ready for that terrible dam to burst -- and prepared to wash with it. All her supplies were there; paints and canvas, paper and pencil.
Here she would be limited.
She bit her lip; tried not to think about it.
You can’t stay awake forever.
But she could try.
[[Alluvion]]
She knew as soon as consciousness swept in that it was going to be bad. The cushion beneath her face was wet, the tears still clinging half-dried to her cheeks. Her heart hammered as she pressed a sob into the pillow, begging herself to silence. Grey light drifted passed the curtains, and though the shrill song of birds chirped outside, everything else was still. Frantic, an arm reached out for her bag, and then she was stumbling from the bed, seeking the relief of paper. Her arms burned, the muscles tight, and hunched she drew fast and freehand. Tears pattered, blurring the lines. Her hand was on fire. Blood soaked through the bandage.
The paper ran out before the need, the pages torn and scattered like a storm’s debris when all clean space was gone. No no no no.
The walls were next, until the stub of the pencil snapped -- one after the other, all gone, and still her fingers ached (and this, oh this, was what she had been afraid of). She could not stop, not any more than her heart could cease its pumping and leave behind anything but an empty shell.
Her frightened mind unhooked from the pressures of her body, and time gushed unchecked. She was sobbing when everything stilled, curled somewhere on the floor, and agony was the first curious guest to investigate her returned consciousness. She did not notice the shelter of arms at first, nor the soft sooth of a voice. A blanket warmed her shoulders, and cool swipes ran against her brow. She sank into the comfort, wordless and miserable.
@"Nox" Hey. I don’t think I’m going to be able to make opening night. Won’t bore you with the strange, sure you have enough of your own ;) I’ll call soon, kay? I want to hear more about the new crush x
She set the wallet aside and tucked her chin onto her knees. The cuts and scrapes she had awoken to that morning still stung, and her hand ached something fierce, but it was not pain keeping her up. Something heavy lodged in her chest, a familiar burden; one that had been brewing for days seeking outlet. Had she been home it was the sort of night she would have shut herself in the studio, ready for that terrible dam to burst -- and prepared to wash with it. All her supplies were there; paints and canvas, paper and pencil.
Here she would be limited.
She bit her lip; tried not to think about it.
You can’t stay awake forever.
But she could try.
[[Alluvion]]
She knew as soon as consciousness swept in that it was going to be bad. The cushion beneath her face was wet, the tears still clinging half-dried to her cheeks. Her heart hammered as she pressed a sob into the pillow, begging herself to silence. Grey light drifted passed the curtains, and though the shrill song of birds chirped outside, everything else was still. Frantic, an arm reached out for her bag, and then she was stumbling from the bed, seeking the relief of paper. Her arms burned, the muscles tight, and hunched she drew fast and freehand. Tears pattered, blurring the lines. Her hand was on fire. Blood soaked through the bandage.
The paper ran out before the need, the pages torn and scattered like a storm’s debris when all clean space was gone. No no no no.
The walls were next, until the stub of the pencil snapped -- one after the other, all gone, and still her fingers ached (and this, oh this, was what she had been afraid of). She could not stop, not any more than her heart could cease its pumping and leave behind anything but an empty shell.
Her frightened mind unhooked from the pressures of her body, and time gushed unchecked. She was sobbing when everything stilled, curled somewhere on the floor, and agony was the first curious guest to investigate her returned consciousness. She did not notice the shelter of arms at first, nor the soft sooth of a voice. A blanket warmed her shoulders, and cool swipes ran against her brow. She sank into the comfort, wordless and miserable.