As time passed, she realized that what she missed most were the little things, the silent promises. Helena had never spoken to Myka about her feelings, and Myka had never broached the subject, but there had been enough for both of them to know. They had waited though, for some time neither understood – the "right time" – something that didn't exist. And now the time was finished, the sands had run out of the glass, and she was staring at the broken bits of glass strewn amongst twisted metal and charred paper all over again. Pete was squashing her close in a bear hug, begging her to stop screaming, again. Everything was happening again.
When time started to repeat itself like this, Myka knew she had fallen asleep. That realization always started her awake, where she escaped one hell to enter another. The world was empty, the night was empty, her room . . . empty. There were no promises and smiles here. There was no bubble of happiness. The person she wanted to see, touch, hold on to no longer existed, was drifting around the world as bits of ash.
Her insides seized up again, and Myka buried her head into a pillow and sobbed. The cries wracked her frame, and the screams began to tear out of her, no matter how desperately she tried to repress them. Eventually, exhausted by the memories and lack of sleep, she cracked and the screams became full-fledged shrieks of agony dispersed between the heaving sobs.
Myka didn't hear the door open, could not hear the door open. She didn't care when the weight of three people caused her body to shift on the mattress. She couldn't feel the hands held hers and smoothed her, nor hear the voices that called her name and murmured soothingly. Eventually Pete, Claudia and Leena pulled the oblivious Myka up just in time for her to vomit onto the floor between sobs.
Leena's eyes flickered, "I'll get that. Pete, can you carry her?"
"Yea." The agent, white-faced with worry, bent over and lifted Myka and carried her like an infant.
"All right. Claudia –"
"YES, anything yes. What should I do?" The younger girl was nearly crying. "There's no science for grief! And – I can't even grieve for him, Leena, because every time I start I see Myka somewhere barely alive because half of her soul went into the grave with H. G., and I'm terrified she's about to follow her. She's not eating, Leena! She hasn't been eating, and I can't figure out a process to pull her out. AGH, WHAT am I doing? I'm sorry." She slapped a hand to her forehead. "Ow. I'm sorry. Tell me what to do."
"Go to the downstairs broom closet and pull out the winter blankets. Throw them on the guest bedroom, the one with windows to the sunrise, then throw some water and chicken bullions in a pot to boil."
"Got it." The young inventor ran out the bedroom door.
"Pete, carry her to that room, and stay with her. Don't let go of her, okay?"
"Okay."
"She's going into shock. She should fall asleep soon."
Pete carried the hoarsely whimpering Myka out her bedroom, carefully moving her feet and arms away from the door frame as they passed through.
Leena watched the limp Myka being carried away with a frown. It was too much, too soon. "Damn." With a sigh she went to get cleaning chemicals and rags.