Trigger Warning: Trauma
She runs downstairs in an unprecedented hurry, the voices trailing behind her telling her to come back. No, no. She thought she was over it, thought that she could be stronger than just mere words. No, they came out of nowhere, ambushed her, plunged within her, twisted her brain.
Choom. Choom. Choom. Choombatta. Choombatta. Choombatta.
Everything shut down just for an instant, a lull in time. She forgot herself, remembered the past, came back. A blink, a second one, looking at those surrounding her. She needs to get out. Escape. NOW.
Her shoulder collides into the wall of the staircase, she missed a step. It doesn’t matter, she needs to get out. Out fast. She stumbles still, someone left the door opened. Her face smashes straight unto the road. Pain surges, but through the fog of her mind, the anguish keeps her alert.
She’s not sure when she started running, tiny, desperate footsteps echoing in the empty, nightlife of Veles. She finds a small scrapyard, derelict pieces of spaceships and discarded debris huddled in a small mound of metallic filth. Nestling amidst the remnants, she found sanctuary among her kindred of refuse.
Choom. Choom. Choom. Choombatta. Choombatta. Choombatta.
She curls up into a little ball, a sole flesh marble amidst cold metal. Arms curled at her knees, hugging herself. Sole solace of the night. Or was it? She finally remembering the bottle in her hand, desperate gulps ensues. A grimace contorts her face, the vile swill nothing but stagnant, acrid, lifeless. She drinks again, knowing that this won’t be enough. Not tonight.
Choom. Choom. Choom. Choombatta. Choombatta. Choombatta.
In the silence of the night, the sound of drills, cruel laughter and medical beeping rings within her mind. The bottle stands emptied before her, her hands cupping her ears. No matter how vehemently she presses, the dissonance persists.
Choom. Choom. Choom. Choombatta. Choombatta. Choombatta.
And she still feels it all, sees it all. Right until both got pluck-
Choom. Choom. Choom. Choombatta. Choombatta. Choombatta.
She looks up Veles’ night sky, her gaze trailing a passing shuttle. Her orbs’ mechanical, subdued whirr, discernible only within utter silence.
Couldn’t they at least have given her eyes that could cry?