(no subject)
Words are starting to lose all meaning.
It had been getting better -- quieter -- Anna had still heard voices, but not all the time.
Not all at once.
Her parents had brought her home, to the house she grew up in, fussing and worrying and promising her that they'll find someone who could help, and Anna had nodded and tried to seem brave and confident and sane.
And then four days ago it had, almost in an instant, gone back to the wild jumble of words.
She can neither focus on them nor tune them out, hundreds of voices all talking at once, words overlapping, crashing into one another, blurring, until they're just a loud, inescapable buzz of meaningless sound, whirring in her mind.
Very occasionally, she'll catch a word.
Seals.
Rising.
Defend.
Witnesses.
Plan.
But mostly, it's like listening for meaning in radio static.
Anna sits in the floor of her bedroom in her parents' house, papers spread around her, colored pencils in hand. And she draws. She doesn't know the words for what she draws -- she can't think in words, can't hear her own words in all the others.
So instead she draws. She fills page after page with shapes and colors, sharp lines and sweeping curves, blots and whirls and slashes in all shades, a delirium of cubist nightmares, a dream of abstract impressionism, maps of the shifting cartography of her mind.
Her parents watch from the doorway, or try to get her to stop, to pay attention to them, to listen to them. But she can't listen to what she can't hear, and there are voices, voices, too many voices, too many words, words, words already in her head, and there's no room for more.
And then, cutting across all the other voices like a scythe through wheat, she hears it.
Fall back! Return to the Garrison! Fall back!
Anna grabs a handful of her papers and runs, past her startled parents, down the stairs and out into the street, fast and hard as she can, barefoot, in her pajamas, retreating from from a front she isn't on.
The voices run with her.
She's gone the better part of mile before her father catches her, his arms tight around her, holding her fast.
Anna screams, a wordless cry of panic and fear and frustration.
And then she collapses.
The voices are still talking.
But for now, Anna Milton cannot hear them.
It had been getting better -- quieter -- Anna had still heard voices, but not all the time.
Not all at once.
Her parents had brought her home, to the house she grew up in, fussing and worrying and promising her that they'll find someone who could help, and Anna had nodded and tried to seem brave and confident and sane.
And then four days ago it had, almost in an instant, gone back to the wild jumble of words.
She can neither focus on them nor tune them out, hundreds of voices all talking at once, words overlapping, crashing into one another, blurring, until they're just a loud, inescapable buzz of meaningless sound, whirring in her mind.
Very occasionally, she'll catch a word.
Seals.
Rising.
Defend.
Witnesses.
Plan.
But mostly, it's like listening for meaning in radio static.
Anna sits in the floor of her bedroom in her parents' house, papers spread around her, colored pencils in hand. And she draws. She doesn't know the words for what she draws -- she can't think in words, can't hear her own words in all the others.
So instead she draws. She fills page after page with shapes and colors, sharp lines and sweeping curves, blots and whirls and slashes in all shades, a delirium of cubist nightmares, a dream of abstract impressionism, maps of the shifting cartography of her mind.
Her parents watch from the doorway, or try to get her to stop, to pay attention to them, to listen to them. But she can't listen to what she can't hear, and there are voices, voices, too many voices, too many words, words, words already in her head, and there's no room for more.
And then, cutting across all the other voices like a scythe through wheat, she hears it.
Fall back! Return to the Garrison! Fall back!
Anna grabs a handful of her papers and runs, past her startled parents, down the stairs and out into the street, fast and hard as she can, barefoot, in her pajamas, retreating from from a front she isn't on.
The voices run with her.
She's gone the better part of mile before her father catches her, his arms tight around her, holding her fast.
Anna screams, a wordless cry of panic and fear and frustration.
And then she collapses.
The voices are still talking.
But for now, Anna Milton cannot hear them.