She leans her head against the wall, feeling the slipsoft scratch of tangled curls between scalp and surface. She frowns, and reaches up, now and then, to touch, but her hands are muffled, and the gesture is halted partway there, at any rate. Her arms are stopped, restrained. She remembers the coil of terror centered in her, at being held, but sees it like an ancient thing, no longer her own, not a part of her. She is muzzy and heavy, and there is too much exhaustion to lend to panic.
She closes her eyes, half-smiling, and whispers things only she and the corners of the room can hear.
No one even watches her anymore; she doesn’t warrant observation.
Spiderlimbed and full of memory, she slides back and lays down, staring into the somewhen that’s near the ceiling. Whiskyblonde curls make a pillow-halo around her; she shivers, blinking slowly.
In this dream, she thinks, I never stopped. The pyrokine drove like the devil, and we pulled down buildings for fun. It went from 87 tons to 200 tons to 4000 tons to 300,000 tons. I could lift an entire skyscraper. In this dream, some things were never real.
“Wake me up,” she says, then, aloud, calling out. “Wake me up; I’m drowning somewhere, and I need you.”
She closes her dark eyes against tears that don’t come.
“I need you.”