(no subject)
I have not slept well, these past few days; my sleep has often been disturbed, over the course of my life, except for when I had Sue, there with me.-But now Sue is gone, lost by my own actions, and I am visited again by night terrors, that even my drops cannot calm, not wholly, dreams of being held in the jackets the mad wear, at asylums-the jackets Sue may even now be constrained by-of drowning in ink.
When I wake, all is strange, and remains strange; back at Briar, familiar things would seem terrifying, made monstrous by shadows. Here, nothing is familiar, so the looming shapes I see are even more chilling, leave me unable to move or cry out for fear I shall draw some horror down upon me, some thing I can hear, breating and shuffling.-I tell myself it is one of the other residents, but they are strangers, they are nothing to me, they have no names, only form. If they had names, I think it would be bearable.
I am glad when I am given word that I am assigned a bed, more private quarters; I hope that space of my own will comfort me. Too, I hope that the girl I am to share this space with will be understanding, of my plight.-It is a faint hope, for I think my condition incomprehensible to any who do not know my circumstances; and I certainly do not plan to reveal them. I imagine her recoiling; she looks akin to Sue, in my imaginings.
I make my way to the room that is to be mine-partially mine-my bag held to my chest, as if it is an extra layer of armour. The room is empty, upon my arrival, and I sit careflly on the bed. I begin to take things out of my bag, and arrange them on the table next to the bed. Combs and hairpins. The portrait, in its locket, of the woman I was told was my mother. I tidy them needlessly.
Would that I could tidy myself better; I fancy myself disarrayed. The stays on my corset are too tight, my arms lack the flexibility to undo them myself.-It has not helped my sleep any. My hair is pulled up as best I could, having never done such a thing for myself.
I am dismayed, somewhat, at how woefully unprepared I am for independance. I think on this, and make unnecessary corrections to the position of my things, on the desk, and wait to meet the girl I shall be sharing a room with.
When I wake, all is strange, and remains strange; back at Briar, familiar things would seem terrifying, made monstrous by shadows. Here, nothing is familiar, so the looming shapes I see are even more chilling, leave me unable to move or cry out for fear I shall draw some horror down upon me, some thing I can hear, breating and shuffling.-I tell myself it is one of the other residents, but they are strangers, they are nothing to me, they have no names, only form. If they had names, I think it would be bearable.
I am glad when I am given word that I am assigned a bed, more private quarters; I hope that space of my own will comfort me. Too, I hope that the girl I am to share this space with will be understanding, of my plight.-It is a faint hope, for I think my condition incomprehensible to any who do not know my circumstances; and I certainly do not plan to reveal them. I imagine her recoiling; she looks akin to Sue, in my imaginings.
I make my way to the room that is to be mine-partially mine-my bag held to my chest, as if it is an extra layer of armour. The room is empty, upon my arrival, and I sit careflly on the bed. I begin to take things out of my bag, and arrange them on the table next to the bed. Combs and hairpins. The portrait, in its locket, of the woman I was told was my mother. I tidy them needlessly.
Would that I could tidy myself better; I fancy myself disarrayed. The stays on my corset are too tight, my arms lack the flexibility to undo them myself.-It has not helped my sleep any. My hair is pulled up as best I could, having never done such a thing for myself.
I am dismayed, somewhat, at how woefully unprepared I am for independance. I think on this, and make unnecessary corrections to the position of my things, on the desk, and wait to meet the girl I shall be sharing a room with.