The room is not hers. No matter that she's lived in it for a year now. She still thinks of it as theirs. The fallen heads of House Bartomn. She still thinks of this as Elizabeth's vanity. She has not removed the pictures, just turned them around. She has not removed anything, just let it accumulate dust.
All but the silver hand mirror.
This is not dust.
She knows that it is weakness, surrendering herself to the drugs. But the drugs keep emotion away, keep her powers away, keep everything away. Just for a little while. That's all she needs. Just to hide for a little while, just to feel like she's more than what she is.
Long, slim, elegant lines, and she bends to take them in... knowing she should be stronger, but refusing to care.
* Get up, stretch, "process coffee"
* Read other Blogathonners' posts
* Wander around wondering wtf to write next
* Stare at prompts
* Type furiously
Lather, rinse, repeat.
I want to take a shower and do laundry, but that water main's still busted. *sigh*
We're still at $2,450.60! Get me to $2,500!