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It's almost as if it takes her entire diaphragm to bellow out that yawnful groan, and then this unfamiliar discomfort pelts through every branch of her skeleton like she'd just bodychecked a wall. Only when she forces her eyes open does Eve realise that the bony pillow imprinted on her cheek is in actuality far from it, and rather the corkscrewed spine of her A4 notebook. And rather than the eyeful of sky she's over the past month or so grown used to waking up to, she's met with the earth-toned landscape of her office.
That same groan manifests itself in her stomach as she unwinds her back, its each and every bone locks into place with a creak. She quickly gathers that she's somehow managed to fall asleep at work, again. Eve has never been one to overwork, but in light of recent events, she suddenly finds herself fuelled by something hungrier than she's used to. She's always been driven, but this drive is suddenly a lot more personal—even more so than before.
The irony alone in getting mugged outside a youth outreach centre—her own youth outreach centre—by a teenager, at that; if not for the fear it to this day instils in her, she's sure it could make her laugh.
Or cry.
But, as she unfailingly reminds herself, the world goes on.
