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October 17th 2008
five months after the second incident
Washington DC
She could still feel his fingers crawling up her thighs, fingers digging into the skin until they've become bloodstained, her legs fighting for dear life to stay far away from his touch, a pair of hands pushing her damp hair aside as water was running down her bare body, someone's chest keeping her close in the bathtub, the bath sponge gliding against her skin. Hands roaming on her body.
Hands.
Hands.
Hands.
Hands.
Hands.
Hands.
Whose hands?
"Your hands are red," Mrs. Russell noticed, then quickly jumped from her usual seat on the massive armchair to check the radiator by the window. "Are you cold?"
Eleanor frowned, taking a close look at her skin, extensively irritated from the amount of scratching on an already cracked skin. "No, not really," she confessed, a sudden sensation of burning icking her senses only now that she's noticed them.
Mrs. Russell eventually returned to her seat, crossing her legs and placing her hands laid on display on her lap. She leaned forward, checking her notes once again that stayed untouched on the coffee table that separated them. "I must say, I'm really proud of you," she returned her attention on her with a wide smile. "Ever since you got out, I can't help but look at you in awe every time I see you! If I knew the doctors there are gonna be responsible for getting you off sedatives, I would've sent you there sooner!" Eleanor swallowed harshly, taking advantage of her therapist's inattention, her nose dug deep once again in her notebook as she seemed to be scribbling something.
"How's your sleep?" Her head rose again, and Eleanor laid back, leaning her back on the sofa.
"Fine," she shrugged. "I've slept five continuous hours. Seven in total. Though the last two I was barely asleep," her mouth seemingly moved without thinking. Truthfully, she could barely tell the day, her mind's detachment working hard to even allow her to actually notice the time passing by her. What had been five months could easily feel like five hours.
Or five years.
"Still, that's great news, Eleanor! And without the pills!" she rushed to congratulate her. Browsing through her doctor's notes, her expression deepened into a forced smile, unable to get rid of. "Though, your antidepressant... Mirtazapine can promote sleep." Her smile eventually died out and with it so did Eleanor's remaining suspicion of an eventual redemption. "So it's not me," Eleanor sighed. "It's still the pills."
