Go to Sleep, This Won't Hurt a Bit
Sherry had gone to the media library for some relaxation. Sure, other people ran off to the sensoriums, but Sherry liked reading. It relaxed her, even if the pages weren't paper, and she found something calming in the series of words on paper. Besides, her mother wouldn't be going anywhere anytime soon, and Sherry was tired. Purplish smudges from too many hours trying to stay awake decorated the skin under her eyes. She had lost some sleep over Claire, and knew she'd fallen asleep awkwardly over a chair in a way that had probably looked uncomfortable.
She hadn't been, but that was beside the point. Sherry removed her headband and put it beside her, fluffing her hair and combing it out with her fingers. She was thinking too much, and that wasn't relaxing at all. She returned to her book of short stories and blinked at the screen.
May 16. I am ill, decidedly! I was so well last month! I am feverish, horribly feverish, or rather I am in a state of feverish enervation, which makes my mind suffer as much as my body. I have, continually, that horrible sensation of some impending danger, that apprehension of some coming misfortune, or of approaching death; that presentiment which is, no doubt, an attack of some illness which is still unknown, which germinates in the flesh and in the blood.
Sherry looked down at the screen in sympathy. Guy de Maupassant, I know exactly how you felt. She continued reading The Horla, but soon, her eyes drifted closed and she slumped over, her cheek pressed against her omnicomm.
The last words she read still repeated slowly in her mind, She was already half asleep on a reclining chair, overcome with fatigue.
She hadn't been, but that was beside the point. Sherry removed her headband and put it beside her, fluffing her hair and combing it out with her fingers. She was thinking too much, and that wasn't relaxing at all. She returned to her book of short stories and blinked at the screen.
May 16. I am ill, decidedly! I was so well last month! I am feverish, horribly feverish, or rather I am in a state of feverish enervation, which makes my mind suffer as much as my body. I have, continually, that horrible sensation of some impending danger, that apprehension of some coming misfortune, or of approaching death; that presentiment which is, no doubt, an attack of some illness which is still unknown, which germinates in the flesh and in the blood.
Sherry looked down at the screen in sympathy. Guy de Maupassant, I know exactly how you felt. She continued reading The Horla, but soon, her eyes drifted closed and she slumped over, her cheek pressed against her omnicomm.
The last words she read still repeated slowly in her mind, She was already half asleep on a reclining chair, overcome with fatigue.