This is pretty intense.
It Wasn't Fireworks
"It Wasn't Fireworks"
GNHGNHGNAAAAAAAAAAH!
The animalistic shriek ended with an audible intake of recycled air. Low lights along the joists where floor met wall automatically responded to the movement in the small cubicle. Shallow, rapid breaths slowed, interspersed with choked-back, hurt sobs.
It wasn't fireworks.
She closed her eyes only briefly, for that action brought back the flashes of multi-hued metal/plastic/duracrete/soil/biologicals/salt water particles being propelled outward along with the nanosecond-length screams of millions in their death-throes. Her shoulder ached from that cruel phantom grip, but she dared not massage that pain away, dared not touch that place he had held her tightly, forcing her to watch.
It wasn't fireworks. It looked like them, all the colors, the loud explosion.
Instead she pulled at the neckline of her sleepwear, dragging at the constricting material so that she could breath more deeply, then blew several breaths down the front of the bodice to cool her clammy skin. Rebreathing under the cloth also helped with the hyperventilation that was making her fingertips tingle unbearably.
It wasn't fireworks. It looked like them, all the colors, the loud explosion, but there was no celebration. There was only fear, death, desolation, guilt.
Cross-legged on the bed, she stifled down the anguish and remorse, reasoned away the blame and misery once again, repeated mantras of soothing nonsense and empty reassurances as one would to a child awakening from night terrors. But this particular dream had been all too real.
It wasn't fireworks.
It was my home. My family. My life. My language, culture. All destroyed only to make a show of strength and demonstrate to me how insignificant I was.
Leia Organa Solo ran one gnarled hand over the other, rubbing the loose ring that was the remnant of her late husband in circles around her middle finger. It was just the nightmare. Only the same, recurrent sleeping subconscious horror she had had almost nightly for more than fifty years. Now she didn't have anyone left to take it away for her. But at least it was over for tonight. Now she would sink back into a dreamless slumber until the hour before dawn, then awaken, alone, to the silence of her self-imposed exile in this little, sparsely furnished room. Alone with her memories, holograms, and the few artifacts she had carried with her all these years, she would rise and greet the new day, which would be the same as the others that had gone before. And it would end as the rest always did.
With the fireworks.
It Wasn't Fireworks
"It Wasn't Fireworks"
GNHGNHGNAAAAAAAAAAH!
The animalistic shriek ended with an audible intake of recycled air. Low lights along the joists where floor met wall automatically responded to the movement in the small cubicle. Shallow, rapid breaths slowed, interspersed with choked-back, hurt sobs.
It wasn't fireworks.
She closed her eyes only briefly, for that action brought back the flashes of multi-hued metal/plastic/duracrete/soil/biologicals/salt water particles being propelled outward along with the nanosecond-length screams of millions in their death-throes. Her shoulder ached from that cruel phantom grip, but she dared not massage that pain away, dared not touch that place he had held her tightly, forcing her to watch.
It wasn't fireworks. It looked like them, all the colors, the loud explosion.
Instead she pulled at the neckline of her sleepwear, dragging at the constricting material so that she could breath more deeply, then blew several breaths down the front of the bodice to cool her clammy skin. Rebreathing under the cloth also helped with the hyperventilation that was making her fingertips tingle unbearably.
It wasn't fireworks. It looked like them, all the colors, the loud explosion, but there was no celebration. There was only fear, death, desolation, guilt.
Cross-legged on the bed, she stifled down the anguish and remorse, reasoned away the blame and misery once again, repeated mantras of soothing nonsense and empty reassurances as one would to a child awakening from night terrors. But this particular dream had been all too real.
It wasn't fireworks.
It was my home. My family. My life. My language, culture. All destroyed only to make a show of strength and demonstrate to me how insignificant I was.
Leia Organa Solo ran one gnarled hand over the other, rubbing the loose ring that was the remnant of her late husband in circles around her middle finger. It was just the nightmare. Only the same, recurrent sleeping subconscious horror she had had almost nightly for more than fifty years. Now she didn't have anyone left to take it away for her. But at least it was over for tonight. Now she would sink back into a dreamless slumber until the hour before dawn, then awaken, alone, to the silence of her self-imposed exile in this little, sparsely furnished room. Alone with her memories, holograms, and the few artifacts she had carried with her all these years, she would rise and greet the new day, which would be the same as the others that had gone before. And it would end as the rest always did.
With the fireworks.
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