There is an ugly something-or-other that boils up inside of her so, so often, now.

Sunny wants to spit bile. She wants to scream and break things and - she doesn't. She's too tired. She's a good girl. It wouldn't be right. But every time she gets worried texts or direct messages or voicemails - hey will you be raiding anytime soon?, or, if it's a less ******** awful thing to hear - hey are you feeling okay? do you want to go out and get drinks? - and it's no, no, no every time. She's too tired. She's too ******** tired, and what's left of her shoulder constantly throbs. There are only so many ways a girl can politely decline invites, and she doesn't want their pity, she wants to make other people hurt like she hurts --

Sunny goes back to sleep. That's easier. What do her friends know about what she should be doing, anyways, all of them have two arms and you don't see her complaining about it. (Not that she doesn't want, but - what she wants - it doesn't matter. It's never mattered. It matters even less, now, because now she can't even do anything to make herself worthwhile. There's a joke to be made there, she thinks, about how capitalism has singlehandedly invalidated her sense of self-worth -- and she starts laughing, hoarse, over 'singlehandedly' and doesn't stop until her father asks if she's okay. She says 'yes' and doesn't miss the way his brow crinkles, because she's a ******** invalid, and this is the least she can do. She doesn't want their pity. She doesn't want their help.)

She spends a lot of time sleeping, nowadays. It doesn't fix anything, but it makes things less obviously wrong right up until she wakes up and it's all as terrible as it ever was. She spends her days caught in a dizzying haze, hours passing in drawn - out overgrowth, blinking vaguely at anything that doesn't cut hard enough to penetrate her fugue state (and that's most things, because most people won't try hard enough, or however hard they try she just refuses to respond). There's a certain brand of silence that comes with simplistic little things - but so many of them are designed for people with - with two hands. With two arms. The constant reminders are like tearing the wound back open and she just wants it to stop - to stop - to go somewhere else and make sense for once, because she doesn't want this, this doesn't need to be everything -- but it is. Sunny lives with an ache that runs so deep she can't describe it, and a want that runs so violently bright she can't look at it, and she pretends things are the thinnest veneer of alright.

Maybe it'll be better. Maybe tomorrow will be better. Maybe, maybe, someday - nothing ever gets better, does it? This is Destiny City. God, it's a wonder anyone still lives here; children keep disappearing and dying and there's so much blood on the streets she thinks she can taste it when she walks.

Maybe yesterday was better, anyways.

(Maybe it never was.)