(no subject)
Hannah thinks that Brennan is right about most things, and Hannah knows she's right about needing to eat and sleep and so on.
So Hannah eats. All right, Hannah mostly pushes soup around the bowl with her spoon, but she eats at least a third of it, and in her defense, it is a very large bowl.
She drinks all the juice.
She brushes her teeth, showers, works the tangles out of her hair, puts on mint green flannel pajamas provided by Bar, hangs her clothes in the bathroom so the wrinkles would fall out.
Small things that add up to living, right?
It would be nice to sleep, because sleeping is one way to stop thinking, and one that doesn't later involve having to join a twelve step program. Hannah is just not especially optimistic about it happening any time soon.
But she curls up on her side, arms and legs drawn in tight, blanket pulled up to nose, facing the chair Brennan is sitting in. There's some conversation about nothing in particular, but Hannah's replies get slower and shorter and less distinct, and (if she were awake to notice) she'd be surprised how quickly she falls asleep.
She stays very still for a long time, but eventually, (and gradually) she relaxes, uncurls.
She might be dreaming.
She also might now be drifting in that place between sleeping and waking, not quite dreaming but also not quite picking her thoughts.
Whatever it is, those thoughts are tumbled and jumbled and they don't quite fit together, like pieces of different puzzles dumped out onto the floor.
And then she sits bolt upright, gasping.
Whatever she was before, she's awake now.
So Hannah eats. All right, Hannah mostly pushes soup around the bowl with her spoon, but she eats at least a third of it, and in her defense, it is a very large bowl.
She drinks all the juice.
She brushes her teeth, showers, works the tangles out of her hair, puts on mint green flannel pajamas provided by Bar, hangs her clothes in the bathroom so the wrinkles would fall out.
Small things that add up to living, right?
It would be nice to sleep, because sleeping is one way to stop thinking, and one that doesn't later involve having to join a twelve step program. Hannah is just not especially optimistic about it happening any time soon.
But she curls up on her side, arms and legs drawn in tight, blanket pulled up to nose, facing the chair Brennan is sitting in. There's some conversation about nothing in particular, but Hannah's replies get slower and shorter and less distinct, and (if she were awake to notice) she'd be surprised how quickly she falls asleep.
She stays very still for a long time, but eventually, (and gradually) she relaxes, uncurls.
She might be dreaming.
She also might now be drifting in that place between sleeping and waking, not quite dreaming but also not quite picking her thoughts.
Whatever it is, those thoughts are tumbled and jumbled and they don't quite fit together, like pieces of different puzzles dumped out onto the floor.
And then she sits bolt upright, gasping.
Whatever she was before, she's awake now.