[Portland] Moon
First came listlessness. She floated through her days and nights as though walking through memories, always wrapped in a throw blanket because she was always chilled. Distraction was an irritating constant; when spoken to, chances were good a repetition would be needed before she realized she ought to be listening. More tired than ever, but much less willing to risk sleep. Giving in inevitably meant a rude awakening short hours later, sick gasping for breath heralding screaming before devolving into absent-minded wide-eyed rocking. Neighbors started knocking, first worried then annoyed about the noise. Had she been alone at those late hours, it's unlikely anyone would've answered the door. Her eyes started to seem sunken into her skull, her hair limp, even the color in her skin reduced. Prattling and chattering had come to an abrupt end; she spoke when spoken to, pleasant in that muted, distant kind of way. And if ever her fit below the theater were raised, she would wordlessly and without fanfare remove herself from the room, just standing right up and walking calmly out as though no one else were even there. In thoughts, she did the very same thing, quietly leaving herself elsewhere a dozen times a day.
That some switch has been thrown in his brain, too, doesn't go entirely unnoticed, but for the most part his behavior registers viscerally rather than consciously. She half-heartedly tries cooking, walks on the pier, lunches and dinners out and the inoffensive movie or two, recovery efforts made more out of habit than anything else. That he spends these interventions as uninvolved as at any other time is just about to be expected. But that he tries to avoid them, and seemingly tries to avoid her during them, sends a prickle down her spine.
Normally, her impulsive response to that would be to pile even more attention onto him, to the point of suffocation if she didn't stop herself. But the Eileen of the last few weeks doesn't do that. She folds, barely presses him when he doesn't want to go anywhere and lets him ghost to the other side of the room. And each time she watches him retreat, embers of anger begin to be ignited, glimmers of resentment smoldering silently.
That some switch has been thrown in his brain, too, doesn't go entirely unnoticed, but for the most part his behavior registers viscerally rather than consciously. She half-heartedly tries cooking, walks on the pier, lunches and dinners out and the inoffensive movie or two, recovery efforts made more out of habit than anything else. That he spends these interventions as uninvolved as at any other time is just about to be expected. But that he tries to avoid them, and seemingly tries to avoid her during them, sends a prickle down her spine.
Normally, her impulsive response to that would be to pile even more attention onto him, to the point of suffocation if she didn't stop herself. But the Eileen of the last few weeks doesn't do that. She folds, barely presses him when he doesn't want to go anywhere and lets him ghost to the other side of the room. And each time she watches him retreat, embers of anger begin to be ignited, glimmers of resentment smoldering silently.