Insomnia

50

It had her.

Esme never knew that a soul could pinwheel - flail its arms in desperate search for safe harbor. Ebon winds raked her mind with agony. She had no sense of space or motion save for the constant push and pull of this hellish gale.

It faded. Terror gripped her as she experienced near-nothingness. Yet even in this oblivion, Esme could feel the Knightmare's presence. Sure as hot breath on the nape of her neck. It rooted through her memories, greedily unearthing history from her brain.

"May, this is real," Atticus said. "She's actually sick this time."

"Sure... Like she was the last time when her mask slipped for a second - except, no, not really - that never happened."

"Just... come. Okay?"

"After work. If I feel like it."
Guilt.

She summoned Nautilus. It hung close to her form for only a moment before wilting into thin paper. Her concentration flickered.

"Damn, it," she cursed. "Why can I never get this right?"

Weakness.

Atticus opened his mouth to scream but no sound emerged. Esme moved closer. He shifted back from her. There was something wrong.

Failure.

"You needed me," Esme blubbered. The pain brought sensation back to her face. Tears welled up against her cheeks. "I wasn't there. I'm sorry - I'm sorry - I'm sorry..."

It robbed her even of grief - banishing her feeling and numbing her face. It was stillborn tragedy, not even given the chance to erupt into tears. Instead, it floated down into that endless pool of darkness. Esme longed to join it.

Her knees sank into the mushy sands. She traced the grooves of a clam. Without meaning to, her body became covered in sea shell armor, her mind rendering each individual piece.

"Throughput up by... four, no, five-hundred percent from last test," her father muttered anxiously behind her. "But... memory recovery seems to have plateaued." He cursed. "What? What am I missing?"

She whimpered after he yelled. He seemed to notice his mistake and knelt down next to her.

Her attention stirred from the abyss.

Even the Knightmare seemed confused. It traced backwards through this chain of memories.

"No. No, I refuse to believe it."

"Dr. Trahan, I'm sorry but it's true."

"There has to be something!"

"If we found the deterioration earlier, then maybe. At this point, your daughter's condition is so advanced that there's almost no chance."

"...what's her prognosis?"

"In a year she'll be incapable of recording new memories. A year after that, she'll start losing her old ones too."

Glass shattered as her father slammed his fist into the cabinet. The doctor hissed in concern, before her father waved him away.

"No, Glen, I'm sorry. That was... not acceptable."

"It's alright, sir. I understand. Or well, I guess..."

"You don't need to say anything else. Just... go."