AN: A look inside Kate's mind. Pre-island. No specific episodes.
Darkness
Darkness. It's all around, but it's not enough. It's that freakish hour, late at night, early morning. It's hard to distinguish between the two. It's that time of night when she doesn't want to be alone in her mind, but she is. There's no one to talk to, no relief. Just the darkness.
It isn't pitch black, yet she feels it should be. Dim light creeps between the folds of the curtains, and it casts forlorn shadows on the wall. When she was a child those shadows would take on the shape of monsters. Wolves, usually. Now, they don't need to be written upon the walls. They never leave her.
She can't stop thinking. All she wants is for her mind to forget all trains of thought; to forget everything, to forget how to remember, and to forget. It's an impossible task. She'll never forget.
She wants to sleep. Her mind craves it. Her body craves it. She knows she needs it, she'll regret it tomorrow. There's too much that needs to be done, she can't afford to slip up now. It'll only lead to more sleepless nights. More darkness. Always, the dark.
She reads for awhile. She knows she won't be able to sleep yet. She knows trying will only make it even more elusive. She reads until the book is finished. Her eyes feel tired. Maybe they can persuade the rest of her body to relax, to trick her mind into rest. It works, for a second. Until the thoughts begin again.
She tosses and turns, trying to block out the shadows. To drown out the voices of the past. But they're there, as vivid as thought they'd been physically conjured. She could never escape. She knew this, but she insisted on trying.
She longs for company. Someone to hold her, someone to listen as she poured her heart out. If she could just get those thoughts out of her head, she could rest. She needed to rationalize them, say what had happened, why she felt the way she did, and have someone comfort her. There was no-one. She was left to try to comfort herself. An unenviable task. The self-loathing and the self-pity were overwhelming. She hated herself.
Rage. All of a sudden, all-encompassing rage. She wanted to hit something. Someone. She wanted to get the feelings out of her, they couldn't stay in her, they were choking her. She wanted to let it out. She bit down on her hand hard, to try to stop the sobbing. She bit as hard as she could. Even when the pain became too strong, and all her senses were telling her to stop, when she was fighting the urge to gag. Because this was something. It was pain, real, physical pain, justifiable. She was allowed to be hurting. And this was only minor. No-one would look at a bruised hand and wonder about her mental state. It was a safe outlet.
She wished she had a dog. A constant companion, never judging, all fur and comfort. It would be calming, to pat it and cuddle it. She could talk to it, tell it the things that tormented her. It would understand. When she felt violent, she could throw its ball as hard as she could, and it would love her for it. But she didn't have a dog. She only had her mind, and the darkness.
She gives up on sleep. She'll deal with the repercussions later, when she has to. She can't handle the helplessness of it anymore. She sits up, turns the light back on. For a moment, she sits, head in hands, rocking, tormented. She realises she needs an outlet, anything to get rid of that face from her mind. She reached for her notebook.
A simple, blue, hard-cover notebook, and a black ballpoint pen. Nondescript items. She opens the book haphazardly, searching only for a blank page. She starts to write. Carefully at first. With no real aim in sight. She pours her heart out onto the page. The paper becomes her dearest companion. It calms her, eases her violence. She writes, until her hand is cramping and her eyes are so strained she can barely make out the words in front of her. After awhile, she grows tired, but she can't sleep. She has to finish it, even though she isn't quite sure what 'it' is. All she knows is she won't rest until it's done. She'll know when it's done.
She pauses, and glances back over the pages. Once blank and innocent, they are now covered in the black gashes of a tormented mind. What would a person think, should they happen to read this? She doesn't care. Already she feels calmer. Maybe she will be able to sleep still.
She closes the book, sensing that the story is finished. She turns out the light, lies back down, and lets her body relax. For once, she is hopeful. Things always seem better in the morning. In daylight, she'll be okay.
End.