(no subject)
The day it had happened (that is, the day her house had been destroyed by a man who'd called himself a hero, and wasn't that just a familiar turn of phrase?), Daphne had ran. She'd ran until she physically couldn't, until her legs had finally given out, and she was forced to her knees in the middle of the jungle, gasping for air that wouldn't come. She'd been found by a girl with black hair and an attitude problem, brought to the Compound where she'd been staying ever since, but the fact of the matter remained that, for Daphne Millbrook, when the going got tough, the tough got out of there.
On the Island, there was no getting out of there. Ten miles hardly qualified as long distance, after all, and so she'd gone in the other extreme, refusing to so much as go outside for days at a time, a bad habit from her youth when that had been her only means of escape. There were enough empty beds in the Compound that she could switch rooms every night, giving her an illusion of movement she so desperately clung to for all that it couldn't have been healthy. She was a dead woman living on borrowed time, though; her health wasn't much of a concern.
That afternoon found her sitting in the common area outside of the Psych Offices, her legs drawn up to her chest. A bowl of soup sat in front of her on the small circular table, untouched and long gone cold. She paid it no attention, focused instead on the photograph in her hands. It was worn, creased and singed from not one explosion, but two. The Mona Lisa was in her hut, but this was what she'd gone and fished out herself a couple of weeks earlier from the wreckage. It was obviously a candid shot; no one looked at the camera, and the only sources of light were the thirty or so candles burning on top of a round and overly frosted cake. It was taken at her birthday, the last she'd had before arriving here over a year ago. Everyone was crowded around a small table in their old apartment. Matt had Daniella cradled in his arms, and Molly had only just set down the cake in front of a laughing Daphne. It felt like a lifetime ago. In a way, she supposed, it was.
At the sound of approaching footsteps, she hastily folded the picture in half, slipping it into the front pocket of her sweater. "I'm fine," she said preemptively.
On the Island, there was no getting out of there. Ten miles hardly qualified as long distance, after all, and so she'd gone in the other extreme, refusing to so much as go outside for days at a time, a bad habit from her youth when that had been her only means of escape. There were enough empty beds in the Compound that she could switch rooms every night, giving her an illusion of movement she so desperately clung to for all that it couldn't have been healthy. She was a dead woman living on borrowed time, though; her health wasn't much of a concern.
That afternoon found her sitting in the common area outside of the Psych Offices, her legs drawn up to her chest. A bowl of soup sat in front of her on the small circular table, untouched and long gone cold. She paid it no attention, focused instead on the photograph in her hands. It was worn, creased and singed from not one explosion, but two. The Mona Lisa was in her hut, but this was what she'd gone and fished out herself a couple of weeks earlier from the wreckage. It was obviously a candid shot; no one looked at the camera, and the only sources of light were the thirty or so candles burning on top of a round and overly frosted cake. It was taken at her birthday, the last she'd had before arriving here over a year ago. Everyone was crowded around a small table in their old apartment. Matt had Daniella cradled in his arms, and Molly had only just set down the cake in front of a laughing Daphne. It felt like a lifetime ago. In a way, she supposed, it was.
At the sound of approaching footsteps, she hastily folded the picture in half, slipping it into the front pocket of her sweater. "I'm fine," she said preemptively.