The heat makes delirium ten times worse and the fatigue unbearable. She's gotten past the point of minding the smell, because there isn't any other smell she can remember. Resurrected for 58 days, 46 of which have been spent on this ship. It's no wonder that she wouldn't remember the sweet stale smell of recycled air, or the cool comforting atmosphere of a warship.
The heat is stifling, suffocating. The stagnancy is killing her. Funny how moving without purpose is almost worse than standing still. Almost.
"Death becomes a learning experience." That's what Sharon once said.
She wonders if that also applies to magically reappearing when you didn't even realize you were gone. Too bad she doesn't feel any smarter. Just driven. And restless.
She knows they don't trust her, and she doesn't blame them. She probably wouldn't trust her either. But doubt is a luxury she can't afford. Not when you're the smartest person left who can navigate a rudimentary star chart and you're also the craziest pilot still alive. Crazy should could for something these days. Pity that even the lunatics stop having visions at some point. She lets her eyes glaze over, taking a minute before pulling them back into focus to trace the veins along the back of her hand. She makes a tight fist and then opens, stretching each muscle one at a time, testing, bending, getting used to this new instrument. This new shell.
My skin is not my own.
Many would say that being touched by the gods is a gift, but she knows better. The devout aren't rewarded, they just get pushed further than most. Sisyphus was touched by the gods too. Every day—-every godsdamn day she rolls the stone over and over. Waiting for a vision, a sign—-some kind of frakking confirmation that it all means something. That she means something.
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timeasmymeasure
Climbing the Walls (veins on the back of her hand, death becomes...., devout, eternal life)
Date: 2009-07-18 09:28 pm (UTC)The heat is stifling, suffocating. The stagnancy is killing her. Funny how moving without purpose is almost worse than standing still. Almost.
"Death becomes a learning experience." That's what Sharon once said.
She wonders if that also applies to magically reappearing when you didn't even realize you were gone. Too bad she doesn't feel any smarter. Just driven. And restless.
She knows they don't trust her, and she doesn't blame them. She probably wouldn't trust her either. But doubt is a luxury she can't afford. Not when you're the smartest person left who can navigate a rudimentary star chart and you're also the craziest pilot still alive. Crazy should could for something these days. Pity that even the lunatics stop having visions at some point. She lets her eyes glaze over, taking a minute before pulling them back into focus to trace the veins along the back of her hand. She makes a tight fist and then opens, stretching each muscle one at a time, testing, bending, getting used to this new instrument. This new shell.
My skin is not my own.
Many would say that being touched by the gods is a gift, but she knows better. The devout aren't rewarded, they just get pushed further than most. Sisyphus was touched by the gods too. Every day—-every godsdamn day she rolls the stone over and over. Waiting for a vision, a sign—-some kind of frakking confirmation that it all means something. That she means something.
Welcome to eternal life.