California - Late January
There is a difference between this place is safe and I am safe. It may be a subtle difference, but it is a difference and it is a very real one. In a safe place there is still a threat, it is simply that the subconscious allows that should the threat fall there are also people who will take up arms and avenge the hurt, punish the one who caused the hurt. I am safe, however, is harder. It means that you don't feel that you, personally, are in danger. It means that it does not matter what might want to harm you, you do not feel that it could reach you.
The problem, as Lissar could not articulate, is that once you have reached past the point of feeling the need, deep inside, to cling to every possible bit of survival...when the subconscious reaches up and with cold finger drags the conscious down to look at things that you don't want to see.
That Lissar doesn't want to see.
Lissar doesn't scream when she wakes up. It's one of the days that she stayed in the bedroom, shifting dog bodies so that she can curl up on the mattress instead of in Ironhide's seats or back. She wakes up, body so stiff that for long moments she can't even consider relaxing a single muscle, and looks up at the ceiling.
It's noon, or close to it, Lissar's duties are scheduled for after dark, early morning and evening classes with the dogs, dead-of-night research into life on Earth, and when she is awake in the day it is generally cramming more information into her mind. She has finally figured out the point of an eight-hour workday.
It was obviously something Prime worked up so that she'd have enough time to learn everything she has to learn, do everything she needs to do, and she assumes she would have gotten a more normal schedule when she had settled in a bit. Of course, the bomb dropped about Ironhide becoming her father's heir is a good reason to keep her on such a short day.
Those thoughts are distractions, of course. They're just little bits that she clings to, trying to hold herself away from the reason she's awake.
It's noon, or close to it, and Lissar is looking at the ceiling while new memories flood into her mind. It's not that she's remembering more incidents, because she isn't. One day, three times. It's that details are adding themselves into the memories and the little voice is no longer saying (no) and allowing her to slide away from things.
There are grumbling noises from the dogs as Lissar finally stirs, and she reaches for a robe to help hide her skin from the sun as she leaves the bedroom and heads for the kitchen. It's hot, even in January, and so she pours a cup of lemonade and drifts around the house as she tries to walk off the memories. The nightmares.
She has to avoid the patches of sun, of course, and walk in the shadows, but she drifts from kitchen to hall to living room to bedroom and back again. She pauses by the garage door, and passes by. She wants to be comforted, she wants to be told that everything is alright. She doesn't want to be weak. She doesn't want to give him any reason to stop respecting her.
It's a good hour of aimless drifting before Lissar curls up in the only chair she has, looking out at the sun-drenched garden, and starts to cry. It's another hour before she washes her glass, neither attempting to stay quiet nor attempting to make a lot of noise.
The problem, as Lissar could not articulate, is that once you have reached past the point of feeling the need, deep inside, to cling to every possible bit of survival...when the subconscious reaches up and with cold finger drags the conscious down to look at things that you don't want to see.
That Lissar doesn't want to see.
Lissar doesn't scream when she wakes up. It's one of the days that she stayed in the bedroom, shifting dog bodies so that she can curl up on the mattress instead of in Ironhide's seats or back. She wakes up, body so stiff that for long moments she can't even consider relaxing a single muscle, and looks up at the ceiling.
It's noon, or close to it, Lissar's duties are scheduled for after dark, early morning and evening classes with the dogs, dead-of-night research into life on Earth, and when she is awake in the day it is generally cramming more information into her mind. She has finally figured out the point of an eight-hour workday.
It was obviously something Prime worked up so that she'd have enough time to learn everything she has to learn, do everything she needs to do, and she assumes she would have gotten a more normal schedule when she had settled in a bit. Of course, the bomb dropped about Ironhide becoming her father's heir is a good reason to keep her on such a short day.
Those thoughts are distractions, of course. They're just little bits that she clings to, trying to hold herself away from the reason she's awake.
It's noon, or close to it, and Lissar is looking at the ceiling while new memories flood into her mind. It's not that she's remembering more incidents, because she isn't. One day, three times. It's that details are adding themselves into the memories and the little voice is no longer saying (no) and allowing her to slide away from things.
There are grumbling noises from the dogs as Lissar finally stirs, and she reaches for a robe to help hide her skin from the sun as she leaves the bedroom and heads for the kitchen. It's hot, even in January, and so she pours a cup of lemonade and drifts around the house as she tries to walk off the memories. The nightmares.
She has to avoid the patches of sun, of course, and walk in the shadows, but she drifts from kitchen to hall to living room to bedroom and back again. She pauses by the garage door, and passes by. She wants to be comforted, she wants to be told that everything is alright. She doesn't want to be weak. She doesn't want to give him any reason to stop respecting her.
It's a good hour of aimless drifting before Lissar curls up in the only chair she has, looking out at the sun-drenched garden, and starts to cry. It's another hour before she washes her glass, neither attempting to stay quiet nor attempting to make a lot of noise.