Larkhill Detention Center -- Room IV
Oct. 5th, 2006 07:22 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
everyinchbutoneIt seems strange that my life should end in such a terrible place . . .
Valerie's dying.
Even though it's the most important thing in the world right now, she can't keep the thought in her head. Everything's swimming, it's hard to breathe, she can't stop shivering -- it's impossible to focus on anything, even her own life.
But she knows it, just the same. She's dying.
The letter -- the autobiography -- was only finished last night. It's safe in the hole in the wall. They can't erase her entirely, now. They can't take everything. They--
She shudders, coughs. Wrapping her arms around her knees, she blinks hard, trying to clear her vision, trying to focus on anything, even the floor, or the door. Part of her still doesn't want to die.
Part of her knows rest when it sees it.
Her mind wanders away from that thought again, and eventually comes to rest on the scent of roses, barely remembered; from there, the sound of rain.
It's almost the last sound she hears.
The last is the sound of wings.
(But endings are not so certain as that.)
The guards will find her in the morning, huddled on the floor, eyes still open as if straining to see. They will cart her body away, wearing hazmat suits to avoid catching what she died of, and they will throw the corpse into a mass grave and forget her name.
But they will not find the little roll of paper. That is for someone else.
Valerie's dying.
Even though it's the most important thing in the world right now, she can't keep the thought in her head. Everything's swimming, it's hard to breathe, she can't stop shivering -- it's impossible to focus on anything, even her own life.
But she knows it, just the same. She's dying.
The letter -- the autobiography -- was only finished last night. It's safe in the hole in the wall. They can't erase her entirely, now. They can't take everything. They--
She shudders, coughs. Wrapping her arms around her knees, she blinks hard, trying to clear her vision, trying to focus on anything, even the floor, or the door. Part of her still doesn't want to die.
Part of her knows rest when it sees it.
Her mind wanders away from that thought again, and eventually comes to rest on the scent of roses, barely remembered; from there, the sound of rain.
It's almost the last sound she hears.
The last is the sound of wings.
(But endings are not so certain as that.)
The guards will find her in the morning, huddled on the floor, eyes still open as if straining to see. They will cart her body away, wearing hazmat suits to avoid catching what she died of, and they will throw the corpse into a mass grave and forget her name.
But they will not find the little roll of paper. That is for someone else.
