In the infirmary...
Angela slept for a long time, but now she's awake.
She still doesn't remember anything, but as the drugs are pushed out of her system, she's becoming more aware of things, more coherent. She feels ashamed at the anger she still feels with her mother and grandfather, and shoves it down inside until she can't feel it anymore.
Wasn't their fault, after all. They tried...
Not hard enough...
But there are other things to occupy her mind besides squashing down her anger--like the memories the drugs stirred up, the nightmares, the fact that she really doesn't remember anything specific that happened while she was gone.
She doesn't even realize how long she was gone. Or why she was taken. Or even an idea of by whom.
She tries to focus on what is actually good right now--the fact that she's clean, and in a clean gown, that her bed has sheets and the sheets are cool and clean. She strokes the bedsheets with distracted fingertips, the gesture oddly comforting.
She looks for a moment at the two IV's, one in each arm, and sighs. She feels really, really weird. She pokes at the toast she has for breakfast, half-heartedly eating only a couple of bites before completely losing all enthusiasm for it.
She doesn't know what to do with herself. She feels dull and flat and stupid.
She still doesn't remember anything, but as the drugs are pushed out of her system, she's becoming more aware of things, more coherent. She feels ashamed at the anger she still feels with her mother and grandfather, and shoves it down inside until she can't feel it anymore.
Wasn't their fault, after all. They tried...
Not hard enough...
But there are other things to occupy her mind besides squashing down her anger--like the memories the drugs stirred up, the nightmares, the fact that she really doesn't remember anything specific that happened while she was gone.
She doesn't even realize how long she was gone. Or why she was taken. Or even an idea of by whom.
She tries to focus on what is actually good right now--the fact that she's clean, and in a clean gown, that her bed has sheets and the sheets are cool and clean. She strokes the bedsheets with distracted fingertips, the gesture oddly comforting.
She looks for a moment at the two IV's, one in each arm, and sighs. She feels really, really weird. She pokes at the toast she has for breakfast, half-heartedly eating only a couple of bites before completely losing all enthusiasm for it.
She doesn't know what to do with herself. She feels dull and flat and stupid.