Laurel Oglive (everaggravated) wrote in britannia_ny, @ 2009-11-08 17:58:00 |
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Entry tags: | jacob macnaight, laurel ogilvie, nathan tarn |
Park (for Nathan, but also openish)
Laurel sometimes wished she were the sort of woman who cried. She couldn't remember the last time she had: college, probably, if she thought hard. But her entire adult life, she'd just gotten a hot, dry feeling in her chest and throat when something was wrong. She couldn't say, with certainty, why, but it wasn't something that gave much of a catharsis, even when it eventually eased.
She didn't know whether it was helping the man in the art store the other day, or the talk with the scared girl who'd bought just one flower, or nothing at all, but her dreams had gotten worse. Well, that was an understatement. Her dreams had become awful. Nothing, of course, that she could describe as a nightmare. There was nothing violent, nothing patently dangerous in them. But everything was saturated with a deep sorrow that time somehow seemed to be making worse, not better. Stupid as she knew it was, she couldn't seem to shake the mood, even when she woke up. Sleeping pills, she'd found, didn't help with the dreams at all, but at least kept her from waking from them, so at least she wasn't falling asleep at work the day after. But it was a half-hearted solution.
Her days off, her evenings... they'd become full of futile attempts to distract herself. This evening, she gives up on her book and goes on a walk. It seemed as good (or bad) as anything else, and the park will at least be pretty in the evening.