(no subject)
It feels like the story of her life, these days: it isn't much, but it'll do. It's what she's got. It's her life now. The hut isn't much, but it'll do. The bed's comfortable, and it keeps her dry when it rains. Her friends, such as they are, know where to find her. Babe knows where to find her. The heat's good. She'd grown so used to being cold in England. She'd heard that, once, England had had long summers, cold winters, real seasons. Maybe she remembers them and maybe she doesn't. Maybe she dreamed up the things that she thinks she remembers about before the wall went up.
This morning, she woke up and the ticking was back, somewhere deep inside her head. Her eye is what she's got, and, if she's got to live with the ticking then so be it. She's been working on ignoring it all day, pushing herself harder than she needs to, running on the beach. There isn't an enemy. There's no gun in her hand and there's no-one here to fight. At the bonfire, she'd wondered how you learned to be something other than what you were in your bones. Buck Compton had as good as told her to man up and own up to her feelings. Which would be fine, if Eden was sure that she even knew how anymore.
Bollocks.
The punch bag isn't much, but it's enough. Rigged from a tree branch close to her hut, it's a little too heavy, which is better than being a little too light. At least it offers some resistance when her fists slam into it. She's stripped down to baggy shorts and her sports bra, the sweat pouring out her, and she's boxing like she's really pissed off, her boots scuffing up the sand. She's not even sure what she's pissed off about. Alice is back. Babe's around. She's got friends, even, and, if she misses Bill, she's not about to admit it to anyone. The split in her knuckle from Alice's tooth re-opens and blood trickles down the side of her hand. Eden looks at it dispassionately for a moment before slamming her fist back into the bag again, head down, sweaty hair hanging in her eyes.
It's not much, but it'll do.
This morning, she woke up and the ticking was back, somewhere deep inside her head. Her eye is what she's got, and, if she's got to live with the ticking then so be it. She's been working on ignoring it all day, pushing herself harder than she needs to, running on the beach. There isn't an enemy. There's no gun in her hand and there's no-one here to fight. At the bonfire, she'd wondered how you learned to be something other than what you were in your bones. Buck Compton had as good as told her to man up and own up to her feelings. Which would be fine, if Eden was sure that she even knew how anymore.
Bollocks.
The punch bag isn't much, but it's enough. Rigged from a tree branch close to her hut, it's a little too heavy, which is better than being a little too light. At least it offers some resistance when her fists slam into it. She's stripped down to baggy shorts and her sports bra, the sweat pouring out her, and she's boxing like she's really pissed off, her boots scuffing up the sand. She's not even sure what she's pissed off about. Alice is back. Babe's around. She's got friends, even, and, if she misses Bill, she's not about to admit it to anyone. The split in her knuckle from Alice's tooth re-opens and blood trickles down the side of her hand. Eden looks at it dispassionately for a moment before slamming her fist back into the bag again, head down, sweaty hair hanging in her eyes.
It's not much, but it'll do.