08-06-2013, 03:49 PM
[Continued from "Home Sweet Home"]
Work had been on her brain. Work? The thought shuddered, then retreated to the comfort of oblivion as she moved about the studio. Unsurprising she’d found herself here. Or maybe it was. How was she supposed to tell? The smell of the paint lulled her, the familiar feel of it caked beneath her fingernails, the everyday motions of mindlessness. Memories dimmed; she felt sluggish as a slow drifting river. Calm. Absorbed in her work. Paint, brushes, sweeping colour and line.
Work. That word again. She always felt so disjointed when she woke. Her brows pinched at the schism. Sometimes she could grasp at equilibrium, allow herself to fade – it was always better if she faded. These brief moments of awareness were the closest she ever came to panic, because she could feel her grasp slipping on something important. It was like drowning.
But it could be worse. Sometimes she drowned in the worlds of others.
The brush she’d been holding vanished, and she stared down at her hands blankly. Memories rose and sank like bubbles, but whenever they burst across the surface the feeling of them dulled quickly. Her gaze lifted to the canvas she’d been working on, only to find it blank. Yeah, blank was about right. She narrowed her eyes, frustrated, desperate -- just go back! -- and finally empty.
It was only when she turned, not really sure where she was going, that she noticed the stranger. Curiosity solidified her presence further, and pushed the memory of before distant; her grey eyes widened, though she hadn't jumped at the intrusion. How long had he been standing there? She’d seen people before, blinking fuzzily in and out of existence; mostly she ignored them, and they her. She was unconsciously accepting of this place, whatever it was. Whoever she was. But it was still... unusual.
She could see nothing of his face but his eyes, and she’d never seen clothes like those. Had she? No, she didn’t think she had. "I don’t know you." A statement of fact; she seemed oblivious to the oddity of his garb in any contextual way, here, in the middle of... here. Her thoughts numbed, and her expression softened, puzzled. "Do I?"
Work had been on her brain. Work? The thought shuddered, then retreated to the comfort of oblivion as she moved about the studio. Unsurprising she’d found herself here. Or maybe it was. How was she supposed to tell? The smell of the paint lulled her, the familiar feel of it caked beneath her fingernails, the everyday motions of mindlessness. Memories dimmed; she felt sluggish as a slow drifting river. Calm. Absorbed in her work. Paint, brushes, sweeping colour and line.
Work. That word again. She always felt so disjointed when she woke. Her brows pinched at the schism. Sometimes she could grasp at equilibrium, allow herself to fade – it was always better if she faded. These brief moments of awareness were the closest she ever came to panic, because she could feel her grasp slipping on something important. It was like drowning.
But it could be worse. Sometimes she drowned in the worlds of others.
The brush she’d been holding vanished, and she stared down at her hands blankly. Memories rose and sank like bubbles, but whenever they burst across the surface the feeling of them dulled quickly. Her gaze lifted to the canvas she’d been working on, only to find it blank. Yeah, blank was about right. She narrowed her eyes, frustrated, desperate -- just go back! -- and finally empty.
It was only when she turned, not really sure where she was going, that she noticed the stranger. Curiosity solidified her presence further, and pushed the memory of before distant; her grey eyes widened, though she hadn't jumped at the intrusion. How long had he been standing there? She’d seen people before, blinking fuzzily in and out of existence; mostly she ignored them, and they her. She was unconsciously accepting of this place, whatever it was. Whoever she was. But it was still... unusual.
She could see nothing of his face but his eyes, and she’d never seen clothes like those. Had she? No, she didn’t think she had. "I don’t know you." A statement of fact; she seemed oblivious to the oddity of his garb in any contextual way, here, in the middle of... here. Her thoughts numbed, and her expression softened, puzzled. "Do I?"
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