(no subject)
She hears him shouting downstairs.
It's hard to ignore, impossible, even though her ears are still ringing after she'd thrown up violently in a mix of horror and rage and disgust and misery, then sat there on the floor, shaking and damp with sweat. And the ceiling's thin, and his voice is rising to almost a shriek below her and she didn't lock the door.
She half-crawls over to slide the bolt home with shaking hands, waiting for the sound of footsteps on the stairs. Instead his voice only raises, and she can hear the name he is calling on above everything else, and she slowly starts to cry. He's mad, and she's made him this angry, and her throat still hurts. She turns on both the taps in the bath in an attempt to drown him out.
The rush of water doesn't work, but it makes him less intelligible, and she's glad of that, at least. She's glad of the heat of the water, too, when she gets in, still wearing her blouse, bathroom light turned off. She hates getting undressed in the light. And when she lies back and lets the water flow over her ears, finally blocking the sound of his voice, she closes her eyes, needing the silence.
It's the deepest night before she finally lets herself out, listening tensely for Elan, even though he has been silent for hours. Her hair is almost dry, and she climbs into bed as quietly as she can. She can manage. Somehow, she will manage, in the morning.
It's almost midday.
Shelley sits on the bottom stair, watching the sleeping figure curled in the centre of the floor. He looks smaller than usual. She rubs tiredly at her eyes, then stands. So, she can cope. The kitchen is safer, there are knives if he wakes and is still... still...
Well. Still himself at her.
Kettle. She needs a cup of tea.
It's hard to ignore, impossible, even though her ears are still ringing after she'd thrown up violently in a mix of horror and rage and disgust and misery, then sat there on the floor, shaking and damp with sweat. And the ceiling's thin, and his voice is rising to almost a shriek below her and she didn't lock the door.
She half-crawls over to slide the bolt home with shaking hands, waiting for the sound of footsteps on the stairs. Instead his voice only raises, and she can hear the name he is calling on above everything else, and she slowly starts to cry. He's mad, and she's made him this angry, and her throat still hurts. She turns on both the taps in the bath in an attempt to drown him out.
The rush of water doesn't work, but it makes him less intelligible, and she's glad of that, at least. She's glad of the heat of the water, too, when she gets in, still wearing her blouse, bathroom light turned off. She hates getting undressed in the light. And when she lies back and lets the water flow over her ears, finally blocking the sound of his voice, she closes her eyes, needing the silence.
It's the deepest night before she finally lets herself out, listening tensely for Elan, even though he has been silent for hours. Her hair is almost dry, and she climbs into bed as quietly as she can. She can manage. Somehow, she will manage, in the morning.
It's almost midday.
Shelley sits on the bottom stair, watching the sleeping figure curled in the centre of the floor. He looks smaller than usual. She rubs tiredly at her eyes, then stands. So, she can cope. The kitchen is safer, there are knives if he wakes and is still... still...
Well. Still himself at her.
Kettle. She needs a cup of tea.