"you were talking in your sleep." for el!
the waking. it oozes through the seams of the hour like damp through old drywall, the kind you do not notice until your fingers come away cold and are smelling of A WRONGNESS. the night is still here and the day hasn't arrived, these two exist in that in-between state. jane pulls herself upright from the nest of dirtied blankets on the ground ⁽ COT IS FAR TOO GENEROUS A WORD ⁾ ... too orderly, rubbing at her eyes with the back of her hand as though attempting to erase the images still clinging there. the sleep peels off reluctantly, breath hitching once with a sharpness and involuntary, then corrects itself. jane is very good at correcting herself. “ ... did i wake you ? ” soft, a check of perimeters. she looks to heather, to the shape of her and to the proof of now, anchors matter.
“ i.. went away. ” not physically, not even metaphorically. it's a migration of the mind, a slipping sideways into rooms that still know her name, fluorescent hums that manage to singe her eardrum, red bleeding into white bleeding into a dark and impenetrable void. she pauses, eyes lowering and voice thinning. SHE IS HANDLING SOMETHING MOST VOLATILE. “ i wasn't here. ” the admission, blinks hard, forces the last of it downward and sewing the seam shut with such practiced stitches : IN, OUT! IN, OUT! the room remains intact, the walls do not peel open, the past retreats. this is the system. eleven shifts forward on her knees, movements slow and deliberate, crawling toward heather to kneel at her side. “ it is your turn. you sleep. ” she is settled beside her, spine straight and posture precise, hands placed upon her lap.
＊ ☆⠀* ⁱⁿᵇᵒˣ : 400 RANDOM DIALOGUE PROMPTS. ... ACCEPTING.
