a/n: Something small to keep myself warmed up between the time I've spent working on/worrying over Eidolon. It'll come at some point in the near future.

Impossible to determine how much time has passed between the act of waking and sleep without checking a window that doesn't exist, or the clock—broken, regardless of the illumination from the red LED—better to lay still, watching the silver light coming in through the blinds—streetlamps? the moon?—and likewise, there's no way to identify the source without raising your head—that takes energy, which is only finite. Eventually the stillness will give way to exhaustion, and exhaustion will take you by the wrist back into a welcome lack of consciousness.

It's too early for breakfast. The bathroom light is on, but the water isn't running. It's not difficult to fixate on the shape of the spilling outward, but it hurts to look at for an extended period of time.

The nurse hasn't come by to ask why you're up yet. Maybe she was the one that used the bathroom. Whatever. You get up gingerly—anything faster will make your head spin—and stumble over to the half-open door and push it aside. Squinting until the pain in your head abates enough to take in the sight of the unremarkable toilet and sink because you already know what they look like and there's no point dwelling further on the peeling wallpaper you've walked past more than fifty times or the standard toothbrush that gets replaced every month.

You go over to the toilet, pull up your nightdress, sit down, do your business. You wash your hands and feel a little chill—it's not at all cool in the room.

Catching sight of the reflection in the mirror, and recognize that it is no more a part of you than you are it—but you look her in the eye. There's the same pallid complexion, whitish hair. Your eyes are the only part of yourself you recognize anymore—the only part that isn't emaciated.

Turn the light off before you leave. Stumble back into bed, feeling heavy-headed again. This time the feeling doesn't go away after you close your eyes. Impossible to determine how long you've laid there, face-down in the plain white sheets that smell like your stale sweat, when you hear birdsong.

Something warm and intangible spreads over your exposed skin; open your eyes to the auburn shape across your bed and legs. Contemplate smothering your head with the pillow and sneaking another half-hour before the nurse comes to check on you.

Maybe you fell asleep without realizing. It can't have been that long, anyway.