WORK. Worry about whether I'll ever be accepted for who I am and who my partner is. Wounds that will never heal in my soul from years of neglect and manipulation by the people who were supposed to be preventing such abuse. And pumpkins thrown by clowns in my dreams while I try to escape the human feedlots of the dystopian future.
Sometimes the correct answer to "Why do you stay up all night?" is "Why shouldn't I?"
you do. with worrying about you. it gets all twisted in my brain and in my stomach. rememeber when you used to keep me up at night with kisses? remember when you looked at me? i know it hurts too much now. so i just worry to the point of psychosis. i just stick my fingers in the wound and say, "it looks bad! i'm sorry i'm sorry i'm sorry i'm sorry! will it get better??? will it heal!?" no, it won't, not if you keep touching it.
Most nights, it's Nate's ranting that echoes through the tunnels; most nights, Fi can relax. (At least someone's fighting it.) But there are times, rare occassions, when even he submits to the sombre reality that is being a Survivor, and the silence...it gnaws at Fi in a way the rodents never had, the fatigue never had. (At least someone's accepted it.) She hears the scuttle of little claws and the far off moan of from another cubby, but the sounds do nothing to comfort her--they are the noise of complacency, of living and dying--and Nate pretends none of it is happening, makes his tongue bleed to prove it. (At least someone's enduring.) She watches through the dark and remembers a better time --lullabyes, jokes, murmmurs, nothing words-- because there is nothing else to do besides wait for Nate's inevitable explosion of opinion, of truth, and she can sleep because his vehemence matches a bomb blast, a city dying. (At least someone's in denial.)
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Sometimes the correct answer to "Why do you stay up all night?" is "Why shouldn't I?"
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Heh.
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