((Backdated solo. Aftermath of Rosa/Pomona’s extended camping trip on her planet.))

It was white. It was white and bland, sterile and no-privacy, and Rosa wished she were somewhere, anywhere else. After spending so long home…

Ah, but that was the problem, wasn’t it? Home wasn’t home. Home was not-home. Past-home. Home-That-Was? That sounded right.

She had a new home, and she knew that, but her head was all meddled, memories and not-memories swimming around. It was odd, confusing reality with things she couldn’t even remember. It was impressions, fragments, a bit here and a snippet there, clouding up her head. Wouldn’t be so bad if she could remember.

She had remembered. Once, briefly. For a too-short span, glorious, painful in its brilliance, she knew. Not everything, not nearly, but enough. Enough to be… content. Oh, she was still lost, body and mind a sea, lost in the bushes and weeds and towering trees, but for those moments, it was fine. She knew she’d survive.

But barely. Barely. There was a price, a catch – always a catch – and the sweet fruit, the memories and comfort, they were poison.

No… no. Not quite right.

The water, the water was poison. Her home – her past home, the water of her past home – were poisoned. Slightly, very slightly, a slow build and gradual declining health.

Toxicity, fever, dehydration, weight loss, and so many questions to answer! She loved her… her family – yes, they were family, past or present – but she didn’t want to answer questions. Not to them. Not yet. Maybe never.

It was depressing. No nice words for it. She had remembered herself – or thought she had, at least a little – but then lost herself all over again. Maybe the memories hadn’t been right – truthfully, her fevered mind had probably been tricking her – but they had felt real enough. Maybe in that moment she had believed she was once a flying, tutu-ed, princess hippo, but it had still felt right. And that in turn had given her strength.

She didn’t know what to make of it. She couldn’t remember, had lost the rightness, and that hurt; hurt a lot. But did she want to remember? What if the memories were wrong? What if they weren’t what she made them out to be, were a let-down?

There was probably some cosmic rule against remembering one’s past life via poison-induced delirium. Cosmos – the thing, not the girl; didn’t know the girl – seemed to like making her the butt of its jokes already. No need to piss it off.

Best option? Only option. She’d have to find her rightness on her own. No more flailing around. Well, alright, that was impossible; less flailing. Have to get out more, have to try proactive-ness, have to try something new…

Oooh, Jello! Shiny.