wip wednesday
She didn’t sleep that night. She lay tangled in her sheets, body slick with sweat, pillowcase damp beneath her cheek. When she closed her eyes, instead of blackness she found the hot glare of an endless desert, sand burning her skin, the air dry and metallic in her lungs. She saw boots in the dust, could feel the weight of rough hands pinning her shoulders, a foreign voice barking barely intelligible words. Her throat ached with the phantom of old screams, and even in her dream she knew no one would come. She woke every hour, heart pounding so loud she was sure the neighbors could hear. Sometimes she’d forget where she was, and for a split-second she’d brace for an impact that never came. Other times, she’d open her eyes and find the ceiling above her perfectly still, the safe hum of the refrigerator, the blurry orange numbers of her alarm clock glowing in the dark. But relief never followed. The memories clung to her, sticky and electric, and she spent the night cycling between half-sleep and the sharp, airless fear of waking from drowning. When the sun finally began to rise, Ziva was sitting upright in bed, fingers pressed flat against the comforter, counting her own breaths. She felt emptied out, brittle, as if her bones were made of chalk and the slightest touch might splinter her. But at least the night was over. At least she could move.
WIP - No title yet - Fic focusing on dealing with the Somalia trauma season 7.
As always thanks to the lovely @indestinatus who always tags me and keeps me committed. Her fic anyway don't be a stranger inspired my need to write dealing with trauma which started this piece, so you've got her to thank 🙌 and also, go read it if you haven't already.
