Spoilers: The Siege I and II
July 2005
How long has it been?
Two days? Three? Somewhere along the way it’s all turned into a long, horrible blur broken by sudden jolts of elation even though they never lasted long because things never worked perfectly; I never could make them work perfectly. If I had...
Well, it doesn’t matter any more; we were saved because of one suicidal Air Force major and the arrival of a big-ass ship from Earth. Bang, boom, bye-bye Wraith—until the next time anyway.
God, I’m tired, but I can’t sleep; I couldn’t even without the stimulants Carson gave me, haven’t since Peter died.
That’s what scares me; not dying—well, not more than in an ‘oh shit, there’s so much I still want to do manner’, but dying alone. If someone was there, someone you cared about, it wouldn’t be so bad, but alone? That’s Hell.
Wonderful, now I’m turning introspective. Isn’t it enough that I feel like my nerves are made of glass because of the drugs? Everything’s too sharp, too defined, and I feel like I could shatter if someone bumped into me too hard.
This hyper-awareness sucks, especially since there’s nowhere to direct it right now; everything’s chaos. There are repairs that need to be made, but my hands are shaking too much to do them, and besides, it would be messy if I touched something and my fingers broke off.
Can’t ask Carson for a relaxant because he’s got too much to do right now; people are maimed, so what’s one over-stimulated, made-of-glass physicist to that? The drugs will wear off eventually, and then I’ll sleep—I hope. If he’s back.
And just like that, there he is, like some genie conjured from some piece of Ancient technology I touched by accident. He looks tired, worn, but triumphant. Soft, he looks soft, and maybe if I touch him, my spun-glass nerves won’t shatter.
I know if he touches me, they will; jagged edges cutting into his softness and making him bleed, however unintentionally.
Don’t touch me; I can’t let you.
Don’t. Touch. Me.
Don’t.
Don’t...
since 02-04-07
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