[In her sleep, Johanna turns, sharply, against Kate.
This isn't cuddling. They don't often sleep together--not real sleep. Eyes shut, breath slow and even--that kind of sleep, it's rare that Johanna ever gets it, and never in the company of anyone else.
She turns again, away. Her legs kick at nothing, loosing the blanket. Sweat clings it to her skin, and in her head, played across the screen of her closed eyes, Johanna sees green. Green, the evening's light filtered through the leaves, and when the wind blows, they clatter together like applause, distant, quiet, before it slows, and fades. Listen.
In the tree, her father smiles down at her, and holds out his hand. Here. She hears his voice, even though his lips don't move. She's already halfway up the tree, and on the ground below her are the six corpses, laid out with their limbs splayed, and the spatter of gore soaking the dirt.
Johanna puts her hand in her father's, and he pulls her up, one tug, grabs her up and grips at her arm to hold her steady.
And all around them, the trees are on fire, and Johanna's mouth is full of blood--blood, on her fingers, on her hands, soaked all the way to her elbows, sticking her shirtfront to her chest. Only it isn't blood. It's water. Water, and her father's grip isn't her father's, it's the gloved hand of the Peacekeeper, holding her down, and the tight grip of the restraints. The chair, the same chair, metal, and she throws herself to the side, and to the other, and she can hear the hum of electricity already, and her breath sobs out of her, from between the piece of plastic they shoved between her teeth. Water is dripping off of her hair, rolling down her arms, and they're watching, all of them, eyes fixed on her, waiting. The lights go down; the electricity swells, hums, tears from the inside out, and Johanna screams, and screams, and the electricity throws her to one side, and back, and she screams--]
dated post boggart (-*)
This isn't cuddling. They don't often sleep together--not real sleep. Eyes shut, breath slow and even--that kind of sleep, it's rare that Johanna ever gets it, and never in the company of anyone else.
She turns again, away. Her legs kick at nothing, loosing the blanket. Sweat clings it to her skin, and in her head, played across the screen of her closed eyes, Johanna sees green. Green, the evening's light filtered through the leaves, and when the wind blows, they clatter together like applause, distant, quiet, before it slows, and fades. Listen.
In the tree, her father smiles down at her, and holds out his hand. Here. She hears his voice, even though his lips don't move. She's already halfway up the tree, and on the ground below her are the six corpses, laid out with their limbs splayed, and the spatter of gore soaking the dirt.
Johanna puts her hand in her father's, and he pulls her up, one tug, grabs her up and grips at her arm to hold her steady.
And all around them, the trees are on fire, and Johanna's mouth is full of blood--blood, on her fingers, on her hands, soaked all the way to her elbows, sticking her shirtfront to her chest. Only it isn't blood. It's water. Water, and her father's grip isn't her father's, it's the gloved hand of the Peacekeeper, holding her down, and the tight grip of the restraints. The chair, the same chair, metal, and she throws herself to the side, and to the other, and she can hear the hum of electricity already, and her breath sobs out of her, from between the piece of plastic they shoved between her teeth. Water is dripping off of her hair, rolling down her arms, and they're watching, all of them, eyes fixed on her, waiting. The lights go down; the electricity swells, hums, tears from the inside out, and Johanna screams, and screams, and the electricity throws her to one side, and back, and she screams--]