She felt brittle these days as if her bones were made of dead wood threatening to break at the slightest provocation. She felt on the edge of snapping, violence dancing almost constantly behind her teeth. More than anything else though, she felt tired. Partly, it was because she was afraid of sleeping and falling into another uncontrollable dream. The other part was simply the fear, the fear that everything that she thought she was was simply a farce.Most of the time she spent her days and nights lounging on tall rocks or on the raised, tangled roots of mangrove trees. She looked for tall places where she could look down and pretend that she was as she always had been, above pointless compassion and out of the reach of fear.
She ran from other kin though, slipping into the shadows and around twisted corners whenever other kin approached. She couldn't face them anymore than she could face herself.
How pitiful.