(no subject)
It's past midnight, and Jona can't sleep.
It's not the first time.
But, you know, she doesn't mind being awake. Being awake means she doesn't have to dream, and her dreams still leave her shaking and scared and more tired than she was before. (Nobody heals from a death sentence at Highgate Prison just like that. Nobody heals, just like that, from feeling the noose around their throat.) (But she hasn't told anyone. Telling people, she reasons, would upset them. She's one of those annoyingly stoic people who'll pretend not to be ill until they drop dead of it.)
She still loves the sting of the night air on her cheeks (if you look closely, they're tracked with water) and the endless expanse of fields and sky around her reminding her that she's free. So she's wandered, and wandered, until she's reached a faraway field, and the farmhouse is reduced to a black silhouette on a black expanse, discernable only by the way it hides the stars.
It's not the first time.
But, you know, she doesn't mind being awake. Being awake means she doesn't have to dream, and her dreams still leave her shaking and scared and more tired than she was before. (Nobody heals from a death sentence at Highgate Prison just like that. Nobody heals, just like that, from feeling the noose around their throat.) (But she hasn't told anyone. Telling people, she reasons, would upset them. She's one of those annoyingly stoic people who'll pretend not to be ill until they drop dead of it.)
She still loves the sting of the night air on her cheeks (if you look closely, they're tracked with water) and the endless expanse of fields and sky around her reminding her that she's free. So she's wandered, and wandered, until she's reached a faraway field, and the farmhouse is reduced to a black silhouette on a black expanse, discernable only by the way it hides the stars.