It’s hard to get good rest, lately.

She wakes up every little while, but never where she had been. And sometimes, she doesn’t even remember having gone to sleep.

Sometimes there are bruises.

Sometimes there is blood.

She rubs at the pink spots on her skin, the chafed rings crossing the bony juts of her wrists, wondering if she’s made the area raw herself, or if it is evidence of something… Else.

Her stomach growls, but every meal is brought back up. Why eat?

She stopped looking at herself in the mirror long ago. Those dark circled eyes only accuse.

This is not going well, she thinks. This is not going well at all — but when should she tell him?

Should she tell him?

What if he already knows?

About Catastrophe Jones

Wretched word-goblin with enough interests that they're not particularly awesome at any of them. Terrible self-esteem and yet prone to hilarious bouts of hubris. Full of the worst flavors of self-awareness. Owns far too many craft supplies. Will sing to you at the slightest provocation.
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