She looks back to see what she stumbled over, and she sways.
"I knew I shouldn't have eaten those ... snow ants." She can't remember if that's a joke or not. Just in case it's not, she sits down and tries to remember...
She remembers getting up, checking the number of the day (low, but not this low), mopping a little, getting too tired to mop, going to get her daily ration, exchanging grumbles about the food with ... someone, does it matter who? Putting the mop away with the promise to mop tomorrow, deciding to go back to bed...
And here she is, sitting on the stairs.
"Goodness, you're burning up!"
"You must have me confused with someone else," Ellen says, trying to push the hand away. Today is not a day for burning. Yesterday? Tomorrow? Or maybe the lady's not for burning.
She squeaks when she sees the empty eye sockets under the black hood of the person bending over her, but no, that's as illusory as whatever it was she tripped over. A concerned face, and blue eyes, with a red flame burning in the center of the pupil-- No. She's imagining things. Isn't she?
She blinks and blinks and doesn't dare resist when they take her away. She can feel her pulse under her jaw, too fast, getting faster. However bad she is, she's not dead.
"Yet who would have thought the old man to have had so much blood in him." She says the words, but they're wrong. She's lying down, that's the problem. Saying the words to a water-stained ceiling.
"She's awake again," someone says from a distance. "Go back to sleep, Suzonne." Sleep, sleep, Suzonne should sleep, but Ellen can't sleep when she's supposed to be sleepwalking. She struggles with the covers, sits up, looks around. A whole row of beds, with her at the far end. A whole row of fretful patients, a range of responses from fearful to annoyed.
"No more o' that, no more o' that: you mar all with this starting," she says to the woman approaching.
"What's done cannot be undone.--To bed, to bed, to bed!" the woman replies, with a patient air, as if she's done this before. Perhaps many times. "So, good night. My mind she has mated, and amazed my sight. I think, but dare not speak."
"Good night, good doctor." Ellen lays back down again, feeling relieved. The scene's over, the part's done. Only one thing remains. "Which time she chanted snatches of old tunes, and flights of angels sing me to my rest," she says.
"Yes, flights of angels, how sweet," the doctor says, relieved.
"Don't encourange her," the patient in the next bed says. "She's not getting any flights of angels."
Ellen snorts, and sighs, and drifts away again, strangely encouraged.
no subject
She looks back to see what she stumbled over, and she sways.
"I knew I shouldn't have eaten those ... snow ants." She can't remember if that's a joke or not. Just in case it's not, she sits down and tries to remember...
She remembers getting up, checking the number of the day (low, but not this low), mopping a little, getting too tired to mop, going to get her daily ration, exchanging grumbles about the food with ... someone, does it matter who? Putting the mop away with the promise to mop tomorrow, deciding to go back to bed...
And here she is, sitting on the stairs.
"Goodness, you're burning up!"
"You must have me confused with someone else," Ellen says, trying to push the hand away. Today is not a day for burning. Yesterday? Tomorrow? Or maybe the lady's not for burning.
She squeaks when she sees the empty eye sockets under the black hood of the person bending over her, but no, that's as illusory as whatever it was she tripped over. A concerned face, and blue eyes, with a red flame burning in the center of the pupil-- No. She's imagining things. Isn't she?
She blinks and blinks and doesn't dare resist when they take her away. She can feel her pulse under her jaw, too fast, getting faster. However bad she is, she's not dead.
"Yet who would have thought the old man to have had so much blood in him." She says the words, but they're wrong. She's lying down, that's the problem. Saying the words to a water-stained ceiling.
"She's awake again," someone says from a distance. "Go back to sleep, Suzonne." Sleep, sleep, Suzonne should sleep, but Ellen can't sleep when she's supposed to be sleepwalking. She struggles with the covers, sits up, looks around. A whole row of beds, with her at the far end. A whole row of fretful patients, a range of responses from fearful to annoyed.
"No more o' that, no more o' that: you mar all with this starting," she says to the woman approaching.
"What's done cannot be undone.--To bed, to bed, to bed!" the woman replies, with a patient air, as if she's done this before. Perhaps many times. "So, good night. My mind she has mated, and amazed my sight. I think, but dare not speak."
"Good night, good doctor." Ellen lays back down again, feeling relieved. The scene's over, the part's done. Only one thing remains. "Which time she chanted snatches of old tunes, and flights of angels sing me to my rest," she says.
"Yes, flights of angels, how sweet," the doctor says, relieved.
"Don't encourange her," the patient in the next bed says. "She's not getting any flights of angels."
Ellen snorts, and sighs, and drifts away again, strangely encouraged.