𝒜 𝐻𝒶𝓅𝓁𝑒𝓈𝓈 𝐸𝓃𝒹𝑒𝒶𝓇𝓂𝑒𝓃𝓉

7 - 𝐼𝓃 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝒟𝑒𝒶𝒹 𝑜𝒻 𝒩𝒾𝑔𝒽𝓉

With fatigue, she leans on the wall for support and stands, weakly stumbling to the sink, refusing to look at her reflection in the mirror as she bends over and turns the faucet on. She squirts soap from the dispenser into her palm and rubs both of her hands together before holding them under the water to rinse them, and immediately after that, sticks her face underneath, hoping to rid herself of the foul taste still very present in her mouth.

She spits minuscule pieces of undigested food into the sink, letting the cool water run over and wash them down the drain without another thought. The sickening stench of bile sitting in the porcelain bowl almost has her gagging once more, so she reaches over, pushes on the little silver lever, and flushes it down the sewer pipes, never to be seen again.

Only then does she look at herself in the reflective glass hung over the sink, not surprised when she sees dark bags under her eyes and unnaturally pale skin, no doubt the results of sleep deprivation and the extreme wave of nausea. Her lip trembles from exertion, her eyes distant, stressed wrinkles creasing her forehead. What is happening? Why is it happening? Why are such terrifying thoughts invading her subconscious each time she goes to sleep?

Perhaps she can blame this one on the news she received yesterday, but that doesn't explain the strange symbol. Why would she draw such a thing? What does it even mean? And what about the buzzing noise? It's accompanied each dream she's had down here thus far, and it made itself apparent before and during she was heaving her lungs out yesterday. It also started again when she saw that figure in the woods earlier. Is it linked to something?

She rubs her eyes listlessly and pushes herself away from the sink at once, switching the light to the bathroom off and wandering back into the living room at a pace much more weary than normal. Her eyes trail up from the floor to Marshmallow, who sits on the arm of the couch, eyes narrowed as he stares at her with dilated pupils. Maybe this should worry her; after all, animals can sense things that humans can't. But she can't bring herself to care very much. She just wants it all to stop. She doesn't want to be sick 24/7 or have nightmares far worse than what's considered healthy or be on the lookout constantly for something that could be hunting her down.

She flops onto the couch rather sluggishly and runs her hands through her messy hair, gaining sight of the large markings that she sketched onto the paper for unknown reasons. Come to think of it, her hand is beginning to ache due to how tightly she had been holding that pencil after she woke up, and who-knows-how-long before then. Does she have an illness? Is there medication to cure it? Should she go to a doctor and explain her symptoms? She'd prefer to wait and get medical attention, if it is necessary, once she returns home, so she won't burden her grandparents with her problems and cause them to worry. But...what if she can't wait for three months? What if her condition only worsens?

She knows for a fact that her parents wouldn't give it much thought if she told them she needed to go to the doctor, nor would they be very concerned. If she informed them of the reason—having hallucinations, nightmares, irrational and paranoid thoughts, insomnia—they'd probably call her behavior ridiculous and refuse to allow her to make an appointment. Or would they? She is still their daughter—surely they couldn't brush aside something like that, right?

Then again, her father did it with the murder of his sister and the disappearance of his nephew, so she can't be sure. But what about her mother? Isn't the whole 'maternal instinct' thing still ingrained into her? If her child was hurt or scared, isn't it natural to be worried?

She glances over at her phone, still sitting on the coffee table charging, unable to rid herself of the sudden thought that creeps into her mind. Somebody to talk to would be nice. But would she actually listen?