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Jul. 16th, 2013 04:36 pmEven after the doctors tell her it's alright to, Molly doesn't sleep. She's exhausted, more so than she thinks she ever has been, every inch of her aching and weary, residual nerves keeping her worn out, and the rest would do her good, she knows. The trouble is, it wouldn't be rest at all. She's uneasy enough lying awake in a hospital bed, with people she knows nearby and reassurances that she's safe. Left to her mind's own devices, she wouldn't have any of that, and she doesn't think she could stand that, not yet. When she already can't stop replaying the night's events over and over, there's no need for her to do anything to make it worse. At least she manages to talk them out of giving her a sedative. It's not much, but whatever little she can still control, she means to.
The sun comes up, but the quiet of the few hours before, after everything started to settle, carries over. Someone comes in to take a look at her, make sure she's coherent and that her pupils are still the same size — she hadn't realized before just how much care there was in treating a concussion — and ask how she slept. She lies and says she slept alright. At least it gets the nurse, this one a woman she doesn't know, out of the room, leaving her to the games on her cell phone and a few shitty TV channels. It's about as relieving as it is enough to drive her crazy. She can't work, though, when her inbox is already flooded with emails not about policy but about Patrick. That the story was going to be news is something she's been dimly aware of since she was brought in here, but she hadn't expected it to be like this. She's just lucky no one's tried to call her yet. It's only a matter of time.
She tries her best to distract herself from its inevitability by changing the channel to a soap opera, losing herself in the lives of people with more drama at hand than she does. There's a small amount of comfort in the melodrama, people fumbling through poorly acted lines and turning on the tears at the drop of a hat. At least none of it is what she's got in her own head. She hits mute, though, when she hears someone at her door, setting the remote on the side table with a stretch that only draws a slight wince from her. She'll turn it off when she sees who it is, she decides.
"Hello?"
The sun comes up, but the quiet of the few hours before, after everything started to settle, carries over. Someone comes in to take a look at her, make sure she's coherent and that her pupils are still the same size — she hadn't realized before just how much care there was in treating a concussion — and ask how she slept. She lies and says she slept alright. At least it gets the nurse, this one a woman she doesn't know, out of the room, leaving her to the games on her cell phone and a few shitty TV channels. It's about as relieving as it is enough to drive her crazy. She can't work, though, when her inbox is already flooded with emails not about policy but about Patrick. That the story was going to be news is something she's been dimly aware of since she was brought in here, but she hadn't expected it to be like this. She's just lucky no one's tried to call her yet. It's only a matter of time.
She tries her best to distract herself from its inevitability by changing the channel to a soap opera, losing herself in the lives of people with more drama at hand than she does. There's a small amount of comfort in the melodrama, people fumbling through poorly acted lines and turning on the tears at the drop of a hat. At least none of it is what she's got in her own head. She hits mute, though, when she hears someone at her door, setting the remote on the side table with a stretch that only draws a slight wince from her. She'll turn it off when she sees who it is, she decides.
"Hello?"
