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Apr. 18th, 2008 08:15 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
mycursedfaceIt had been good when she first came to Milliways. Curled up in Lucifer’s bed, in Lucifer’s arms, with the devil between her and the door, she could sleep. Oh, could she sleep. Damn straight she was good in bed, she had slept for days. Dreams, yes. Nightmares, yes, but…But it was sleep. It was good, too good, almost.
Too good to last, certainly.
As the nightmares began to increase, as they began to get worse and worse, it was too easy to fall into old habits and fall she did.
Lie awake for hours, staring at the door. Lie awake all night and if some of it is just due to her being used to a different sleep-pattern, most of it is just due to the fact that, well. She can’t get to sleep.
She doesn’t want to go to sleep.
Sleep means being unaware, sleep means being vulnerable, sleep means waking up to being murdered all over again. It feels the same, it always feels the same. Sometimes she’s drifting off, sometimes she’s drifting awake, but it’s the same; a sickening gasp, blind panic, and then her heart beating, beating, beating so hard with terror she is convinced that it’s going to break her ribs.
And if she does fall asleep, then it is either oblivion or nightmares. The oblivion is disconcerting; the nightmares are horrifying. Mostly, they are of being insane again, of seeing the world lawless and strange. The sky is purple, green, the trees lunge towards her and her mind is being eaten by rats. Sometimes, it is her murder; sometimes, it is her rape; sometimes it’s a strange mixture of the two, with Athena and Poseidon fighting and trampling her body underfoot (if she can scream, they never hear her, but being able to scream is rare). Mostly, though, it is memories of being crazy, and that is quite enough.
She doesn’t really need to sleep, anyway.
So, today Medusa stretches on the bed, rubs her eyes and then the cat (Shredie isn’t entirely sure what to make of this stranger, but the feathers are fun to play with), and gets to her feet. Jeans, sundress, bangles; kohl around her eyes because even if she hates looking in the mirror, even if she isn’t living in a desert, some things are habit.
And then her wire-framed glasses, and with a called goodbye to the boyfriend in the shower, she’s out the door and heading down the stairs.
Too good to last, certainly.
As the nightmares began to increase, as they began to get worse and worse, it was too easy to fall into old habits and fall she did.
Lie awake for hours, staring at the door. Lie awake all night and if some of it is just due to her being used to a different sleep-pattern, most of it is just due to the fact that, well. She can’t get to sleep.
She doesn’t want to go to sleep.
Sleep means being unaware, sleep means being vulnerable, sleep means waking up to being murdered all over again. It feels the same, it always feels the same. Sometimes she’s drifting off, sometimes she’s drifting awake, but it’s the same; a sickening gasp, blind panic, and then her heart beating, beating, beating so hard with terror she is convinced that it’s going to break her ribs.
And if she does fall asleep, then it is either oblivion or nightmares. The oblivion is disconcerting; the nightmares are horrifying. Mostly, they are of being insane again, of seeing the world lawless and strange. The sky is purple, green, the trees lunge towards her and her mind is being eaten by rats. Sometimes, it is her murder; sometimes, it is her rape; sometimes it’s a strange mixture of the two, with Athena and Poseidon fighting and trampling her body underfoot (if she can scream, they never hear her, but being able to scream is rare). Mostly, though, it is memories of being crazy, and that is quite enough.
She doesn’t really need to sleep, anyway.
So, today Medusa stretches on the bed, rubs her eyes and then the cat (Shredie isn’t entirely sure what to make of this stranger, but the feathers are fun to play with), and gets to her feet. Jeans, sundress, bangles; kohl around her eyes because even if she hates looking in the mirror, even if she isn’t living in a desert, some things are habit.
And then her wire-framed glasses, and with a called goodbye to the boyfriend in the shower, she’s out the door and heading down the stairs.
