Well.

Hi there.

PLEASE DON'T THROW VEGETABLES AT ME I AM SORRY AND I HAVE REASONS.

First, school. I'm in a bunch of advanced classes, and they take a lot of time.

Also, I've been sick. Really, really sick.

I didn't want to go about waving this like a flag, but when it's affecting my writing this much I figure you guys have the right to know.

I'm recovering from anorexia nervosa. Actually, it's been a year and a half, and I'm almost recovered. It's the maintaining of the recovery that takes a lot of effort. I'm also having a lot of hallucinations and I'm on medication for my depression.

I don't want a bunch of pity, I just thought you guys should know since it's affecting my writing so much.

Also, if you don't want to read a story written by a 'psycho' or a 'stupid, typical, anorexic freak' you can leave right now. I don't want to hear your shit.

Shower. The word bounced around my head like a dodge ball. Shower. Shower. Shower.

I just wanted to be clean. Clean and new and not this.

I swung my legs over the side of the bed, touched my feet onto the cool floor. Carefully stood up. The stab of pain ran through me and made me wince, but I grabbed the clothes Christophe had left and made my way to the bathroom.

My legs were shaking by the time I reached it. I let my knees buckle and fell to the tiles. The slate was freezing, but it was something. Something other than the Please Make This Go Away.

I crawled my sorry form over to the shower, reached in and cranked the handle. It wasn't until I'd gotten in that I realize the water was scalding. But it was still something that kept my mind off It, so I left it. The steam billowed up and clouded the glass of the shower.

I slid down the wall at some point. Sitting there in the scalding water loosened the pull of the gashes on my back so I could sit straight.

Whoop-de-fucking-do.

Eventually the water got too burning even for keeping my mind off It. I reached over and pulled the faucet again. Within half a second the water went from lava to freaking north pole. I could just hear it giggling nastily.

I couldn't help the gasp. It was so cold.

I left it for about a minute before I thought to change it. I finally got it to a marginally normal temperature and sat there for a few more moments. The world had become fogged up class and water droplets, with a mass of hair framing it like a picture.

Soap. Clean. Good.

I grabbed the soap bottle, squirted half of it onto the webbed sponge thing I think is called a loofah. Scrubbed myself until it hurt.

I spent another few minutes letting the water drip into my eyes. I don't want to get out.

My hand reached out and declaring itself as a traitor, turned off the downpour. I stood for a second, not sure what to do. Then I pulled myself together, stepped out of the shower and grabbed a towel. I surreptitiously avoided looking at the mirror.

The clothes Chris had grabbed me were loose. I'd need to eat more pizza or he'd rag on me about that.

I slipped into the sweat pants and the oversized T-Shirt I'd managed to hide from Nat. It made sense Chris knew where I kept them, what with him being around me all the time.

And right then, for once, I was glad he never let me out of his sight.

My legs wobbled as I forced them towards the bed. Dropped down on the mattress and stared at the air.

That's a cute dust mote. I'll name it.

"Larry." I muttered to myself. Then, to the dust mote, "Your name is Larry."

I can't tell if Larry liked his name. I hope so.

Out of all of me, my arms hurt the least. Left arm. There was a little area the size of a spoon that actually wasn't bruised.

I crawled into bed, pulled the blankets up to my chin. Closed my eyes.

HOLY SHIT THAT WAS BAD IDEA.

I bolted upright and tried to scrub the image of Adesh from my eyes. "Larry. How do I become a dust mote?"

Larry continued floating. He was probably giving me a Look.

I didn't close my eyes again. I didn't want to see him again.

It wasn't long before there was a knock on my door.

Or maybe it was long. Who the hell knew?

I ignored it. Continued to stare at the ceiling. I couldn't even count holes in it; someone had gone over the ceiling with off-white plaster before I'd been moved in. Damning the janitors as an attempt at sarcasm and feeling like me again turned out to be too much of an effort and I gave up on it. Besides, it seemed a bit like overkill.

There was a knock. "Dru."

I kept staring at the ceiling.

They knocked again. "Dru."

Stare.

Knock.

"Dru."

Stare.

Knock.

"Dru."

Stare.

Knock.

"Dru."

You know what? Fine. "What?"

"Can I come in?"

No. "Sure."

The door pushed hesitantly open. A mop of dark hair poked around the edge. "Hi."

Damn it all, not this. Not the hesitating, not the pity, not the poor thing would you like some cake? "Hi." Please don't look at me like that.

"How are you?" Graves asked, sidling into the room.

"Just ducky." There. That was a little more me.

He smiled wanly. Seemed unable to say anything. His eyes moved just slightly as he looked over the bruises.

"How was it out there?" I finally asked.

His eyes met mine, and he pretended like he hadn't been staring at the hand shaped bruise on my arm. I pretended I hadn't noticed. "You mean in the Big Blue? Out of the tank and into the ocean?"

"Sure."

He shrugged. "Big. Blue. A bit lonely without my small fry, to be honest."

"I am not a small fry."

Graves threw his head back and laughed like that was the most hilarious thing he'd ever heard. I looked at him. "Keep doing this and I'll rip your throat out."

He quieted and gave me a slightly guilty look. "I'm sorry. I just… want you to feel… better."

"And that is a terrible way to do it."

He shifted and came a couple steps closer. Met my eyes, looked down, back at my eyes. "Look, I know I should give you more time, but I have to know now." Where is this going? "Do you still love me?"

Um.

I stared at him, and he hurried on. "I know I'm probably being selfish, and I know you deserve more time, but I have to know-"

Something told me to cut him off there. "Um." Is 'I don't know' an acceptable answer? Apparently it's a lot easier to tell someone you love them when they've just gotten over a case of possession and you're running off to your almost certain death than when he's been gone for a year and a bit and you're stuck in an infirmary bed, scared of your own shadow.

"I- I mean, I-"

"Did something happen with- with him, Christophe?" Now that he'd started, he couldn't seem to stop. "It's alright, it's not like we made any promises or-"

"No." I finally managed. Then realised what that sounded like and hurriedly continued. "I mean with Chris. Nothing's happened." And that was true. Chris had been a perfect gentleman, and really, not much had gone on between us.

Graves looked slightly relieved. "So does that mean-"

"I don't know." I blurted. "I really don't know and…"

He nodded vigorously. "That's alright, you don't need to know now-"

"Kochana?" Christophe gently pushed the door open. "How did you sleep?"

Graves made an Unimpressed Face and muttered something I didn't catch. Christophe barely glanced at him. "Watch your mouth. You didn't sleep." The observation was so quick after the retort I thought he was still talking to Graves for a second.

I knew I couldn't fool Christophe. "No."

He didn't have to ask why. "You need to."

"No shit Sherlock." Graves's tone couldn't be more scathing. "But telling her that isn't going to help."

Christophe gingerly sat on the bed beside me. "Lie back. You can't sleep sitting up."

I shook my head. "I'm not tired."

Christophe didn't buy it. Larry probably didn't either. "Lie down. You need your rest."

"I don't want to sleep." I don't want to see his face.

Graves was watching with piercing eyes. "Don't pressure her."

Christophe's eyes sharpened. "You know as well as I do she's exhausted. She'll be hurt if she doesn't rest. Or would you prefer she wanders around in a daze and falls down a flight of stairs?"

"Of course I don't want that." Graves snapped. "But the way you're forcing her-"

"Would both of you go?" I whispered.

They both snapped their mouths shut so fast it was almost comical. But they didn't do anything else.

"Please? I'm tired."

They both moved at the same time. Graves nodded and smiled at me, eyes saying something that I was too tired to translate. Christophe searched my eyes slowly, either found what he wanted or didn't find what he didn't want to, and rested his hand gently on mine for just a moment. They both rose and left the room.

The door clicked quietly, almost louder than the voices behind it.

"…hope you remember that I've never left her."

"I hope you realise that I wasn't the one who let a psycho kidnap her."

"Don't make the mistake of thinking you know either her or me."

"I wouldn't want to know you. But I know her better than anyone else does. I was the one who was there when she had to shoot her dad, when Anna tried to have her killed, and when you weren't there."

"You think you know her? You know the her that is being lied to-"

"By you."

"-and is trying to stay alive. That's not much to know. I know the her that isn't always having her life threatened. There's a lot more to know when Dru is like that."

"And you know it?"

"Yes. I also know what she's like when she's among her equals."

The voices grew quieter, and I realized they were drifting away. The walls were staring to bend, too. I was pretty sure they weren't supposed to do that. What had Christophe called me? Exhausted?

At least this time when I fell asleep, there wasn't anything to see.

So... yeah. That's the latest chapter of Darkest Hour.

Once again, I am so sorry. And don't be afraid to ask me about my illnesses, it's perfectly alright. I've just gotten a lot of crap for having mental illnesses and I'm not interested in hearing anymore. If you want to call me crazy, it's been done. Come up with something more original.

Sooooooo... yeah. I LOVE YOU ALL. A LOT. LIKE A LOT A LOT.

MANY THANKS TO SHIVI FOR HELPING ME KEEP MY SANITY INTACT. XD