@conquestforged
“hm?” hm. you say it, halting, and your nails keep scratching the arms of the chair you’re sitting in. your eyes blink-- hard, and then harder-- and you don’t think everything makes any sense. mostly, it’s just fog. there’s this thick, dense, soupy layer over the world. it’s more like a film, maybe. you blink again. your mouth aches, and your eyes feel so dry. they feel scratched with sandpaper. you’re stuck dead ahead with your purse in your lap, thousand yard stare into the wall.
should you tell jess? oh. yeah. absolutely, you should. but you can’t bear to. you can’t stop thinking about the fact that in that back back backroom is--
you’re not going to think about it.
truthfully, you don’t remember why you’re in this parlor, or this waiting room. you don’t have any clue why you came here. it smells like something stale and constant, thick in your mouth like when you’ve just woken up. you look over next to where you are at the table. the arms of the chair? little, faint scratches, your nails constantly biting deeper and deeper.
you’re talking to no one in here. hm? is for no one, considering it’s just you. outside the cameras are waiting and you know that. somewhere. there’s no respect to be had, especially not for you.
(your subconscious says that you should replace this chair immediately, or figure out some lie about how this happened. something less mortifying than an unconscious nervous tick. you think about how humiliating it is, with your hard, glittery, dry eyes.)
you turn your hand over and look at your wrist. your watch beats above faint, dark, spotty bruises. you can only look for a second before the hand ticking blasts in your head like a sledgehammer and you have to focus somewhere else.
time must stand still or something here.
