Woke up in cold sweats and crying. Father was there next to my bed again. I swear I felt those fingers against my neck again.
This is getting utterly ludicrous. I know I come across as perfectly sane and rational and normal in my posts, but that's only because I'm writing and I can go back and delete the bits where I start rambling about how nauseous I feel constantly, how terrified I am every time I am anywhere, even near people because, hell, Reach was mere inches in front of me and then I was suddenly somewhere else, hell, I'm doubting if I'm even posting this right now, it could just be another thing that The Labyrinth has decided to inflict on me. Because it would do that, you know, it would make me think I'm out of it and then suddenly pull me back. Like Room 1408. It's that hellish, save it's not a book, it's real. Or...not real-real, but mind-real.
And I'm always turning to the side to make a snide comment about something to Reach.
And I'm constantly shaky, like I'm wired on caffeine. I've misspelt shit because my hands are so jittery. And I'm SO DAMN TIRED because I can't even sleep sometimes due to...well, the memories.
They aren't nightmares, not really, nightmares are something your mind's made up. These are memories of what happened, played over and over and over and over and over until I just want to claw out my mind's eye and then ALWAYS when I wake, from those memories or just a nap, even a daydream, that Father thing is there. Always at my shoulder. Always reaching out to paw at me.
And ever since I bit him that taste has not gone. It's like bile in my mouth, always there. Nothing gets rid of it. Save for the constant gum-chewing. But you can't chew gum when you sleep, so bang goes that during the night. Most people wake up with morning breath, I wake up with a taste that means the first thing I do in the morning, apart from cry, stare wide eyed at my dead Father trying to paw at my neck with his entrails on the verge of spilling over his broken jaw, is bolt to my bathroom once he's dissipated and throw up. Which, among other things, is really not healthy.
And those whispers are there. In the dark, at night, I hear them from behind doors, windows, chairs....
And I can't drink here.
I can't exactly swim either, considering the stitches in my leg, arm and all the bruises.
In other, less angsty, news, Dr Aaron McKenna is a jumpy little upstart in his twenties who believe that little girls shouldn't be allowed on digs without a degree in Archaeology.
I want to shoot him through the phone.
But I can't, because I had to sell the shotguns back to "James" thanks to airport security.
And that's the only reason why.
Not the fact that he used to look up my dress when I was nine.
Oh god, can I just get a break for a day?
I'm going to see if I can scream Aaron into submission through the phone.
I'm glad that you're all alive, even if a few of you have gone and buggered up some part of your bodies or minds. ¬_¬
Catch you on the flip side, friends,