Room 218; Late Friday Afternoon.
Adah had woken up perhaps an hour ago, just enough time for her to have a shower and put what little food into her stomach that she knew she'd been able to keep down. The room was still a bit chilly, though Honour must have closed the window opened to help the room air out. It definitely had, but the acrid smell of her getting sick yesterday morning still hung in the back of Adah's half brain. She'd stayed up as late as she possibly could last night, curled up in her bed and reading Poe by a small lamp, trying not to disturb her roommate. It would be trash on her sleep schedule, she knew this, but, deprive herself of sleep long enough, she'd eventually just crash into a sleep so deep it was guaranteed to contain no disturbing dreams that would wake her up or linger with her once she woke up.
And it had worked, for the most part, but waking up so late in the day left her disorientated, and there were still vague vapors of dreams: transistor radios and barefoot boys with guns bigger than they were, the ever-present green mamba snake, and things picked perfectly clean by ravenous ants. She thought that, at one point, one of those things were her own hand, but she was trying not to think about it, seeing how, if it was, it was her precious left hand, and she needed need a panic attack again.
Definitely didn't need it. Nothing excitable or stressful or bothersome. Which was exactly why she resolved to do nothing more today than curl up in her bed, studying her medical books. Poetry wouldn't do; even poetry now was an addition to the distress.
[[ the door is closed, but certainly knockable ]]
And it had worked, for the most part, but waking up so late in the day left her disorientated, and there were still vague vapors of dreams: transistor radios and barefoot boys with guns bigger than they were, the ever-present green mamba snake, and things picked perfectly clean by ravenous ants. She thought that, at one point, one of those things were her own hand, but she was trying not to think about it, seeing how, if it was, it was her precious left hand, and she needed need a panic attack again.
Definitely didn't need it. Nothing excitable or stressful or bothersome. Which was exactly why she resolved to do nothing more today than curl up in her bed, studying her medical books. Poetry wouldn't do; even poetry now was an addition to the distress.
[[ the door is closed, but certainly knockable ]]