(no subject)
She hasn't been able to sleep straight through the night in months.
At home, there are noises to jog her from the nightmares - cabs honking outside, the shouts from the street below as the city begins to wake up, the loud blaring of her alarm clock. All of it somehow manages to break her away from the sound of her screams in her memory, of Cory's frantic barking while she struggled. Here, there's nothing to tear her from the dream but her own consciousness struggling to overcome, to fight through until she can break away from the nightmare of the attack, jolting upwards in bed, covered in a cold sweat. There's no window for her to open here, down in her room, no breeze for her to stand in front of to let the cool evening air slowly wisk the evidence of the bad dreams away from her skin. First thing tomorrow, Ellen decides, she's going to start looking for somewhere else to live. Maybe it's the confined space of her Compound room that leaves her feeling like she's fighting to breathe, the hot air overwhelming her to the point that she thinks she might actually be losing it down here.
One chanced look at the clock has her struggling to breathe a sigh of relief. It's not too late now for her to still go out. In New York, the bars would still be open, the late-night workers hopping from place to place after a stressful day, eager to get a jump-start on their weekend of drinking. A drink sounds like the thing she needs at this point, or maybe five. She pins up her hair, rinses off in the shower and then changes into a dress she managed to pull out of the clothes box during a late-night raiding of its contents. It's black, backless, the hem hitting just above her knees. It'll serve to make her feel different enough from the girl who woke up screaming, and tonight, she plans to do everything she can to make herself forget.
The Hub is her establishment of choice, most of the time, and at this hour, it'll still be open. She doesn't care if she looks ridiculous navigating the boardwalk path in heels, or marching up to a seat at the bar, sliding onto an empty stool with the practiced grace that comes of wearing stilettos often. All she cares about is that first martini, and what happens after that - well, she's willing to take each hour of the night as it comes, and as for tomorrow, she'll worry about that later.
[Back-dated Forward-dated, I guess? - to late Friday night, but I just couldn't wait to get this up. ST/LT is fine, and while it's a good time to meet her, beware that her judgment/decision-making won't be completely intact/responsible.]
At home, there are noises to jog her from the nightmares - cabs honking outside, the shouts from the street below as the city begins to wake up, the loud blaring of her alarm clock. All of it somehow manages to break her away from the sound of her screams in her memory, of Cory's frantic barking while she struggled. Here, there's nothing to tear her from the dream but her own consciousness struggling to overcome, to fight through until she can break away from the nightmare of the attack, jolting upwards in bed, covered in a cold sweat. There's no window for her to open here, down in her room, no breeze for her to stand in front of to let the cool evening air slowly wisk the evidence of the bad dreams away from her skin. First thing tomorrow, Ellen decides, she's going to start looking for somewhere else to live. Maybe it's the confined space of her Compound room that leaves her feeling like she's fighting to breathe, the hot air overwhelming her to the point that she thinks she might actually be losing it down here.
One chanced look at the clock has her struggling to breathe a sigh of relief. It's not too late now for her to still go out. In New York, the bars would still be open, the late-night workers hopping from place to place after a stressful day, eager to get a jump-start on their weekend of drinking. A drink sounds like the thing she needs at this point, or maybe five. She pins up her hair, rinses off in the shower and then changes into a dress she managed to pull out of the clothes box during a late-night raiding of its contents. It's black, backless, the hem hitting just above her knees. It'll serve to make her feel different enough from the girl who woke up screaming, and tonight, she plans to do everything she can to make herself forget.
The Hub is her establishment of choice, most of the time, and at this hour, it'll still be open. She doesn't care if she looks ridiculous navigating the boardwalk path in heels, or marching up to a seat at the bar, sliding onto an empty stool with the practiced grace that comes of wearing stilettos often. All she cares about is that first martini, and what happens after that - well, she's willing to take each hour of the night as it comes, and as for tomorrow, she'll worry about that later.
[Back-dated Forward-dated, I guess? - to late Friday night, but I just couldn't wait to get this up. ST/LT is fine, and while it's a good time to meet her, beware that her judgment/decision-making won't be completely intact/responsible.]