Disclaimer: I do not own Enterprise.
Summary: In space, you live or you die, and neither takes too long. I'm here just waiting.
Purgatory
"Purgatory is a waiting room."
I'm sitting on my bunk and I'm twiddling my thumbs, one pressing down the other in rhythm, left then right then left and again, like I'm thumb wrestling myself. Fighting myself.
I never thought that people actually did this; I always assumed that 'twiddling thumbs' was just a way of saying clenching fists or pacing feet, or any other method of distraction. But no. I'm twiddling my thumbs. I'm thinking of anything.
My left thumb conquers my right. My skin is rough, I notice; I've never realized that before, although, I suppose, it's just an occupational hazard.
No. Nononono.
My right thumb valiantly retaliates. My nails are stubby and ragged, like I bite them, but I don't. Sometimes I snag my skin on the edges bad enough to bleed.
Oh, God…
The intensity of my digits' private battle increases. And there it goes. My thumbnail nicks my right palm and there's a tiny spot of blood. It hit a vulnerable area, between two calluses. My hand is now a casualty of war.
Another one.
If I don't twiddle my thumbs, I'll punch something. Or strangle somebody. I'd even strangle her, if the doc would let me the hell in. What's taking so long? In space, you live or you die. And neither takes too long.
I press my thumbs against each other, wondering which knuckle will give out first. My left loses. I wish I were ambidextrous. It would've been a more interesting fight.
But it was a terrible fight. There was nothing interesting about it.
"Commander," comes the alien voice through a personal wave on the intercom.
"Yes!"
"The sub-commander will be fine. You can come see her now."
I sigh. My hands fall limply to my side as I try not to cry in relief.
Note: This was, at one point, Trip waiting for his daughter's inevitable death. However, I just had a creepy feeling about that, so it became this.