POV Break: Hanna
There's really nothing left, now. You look at the walls around you and paint them orange with your eyes, because that's the color your dark walls are supposed to be. You picture a tiny window with a pizza slice of moon in the corner, but no stars. Your area is too polluted to see the stars, but you didn't mind so much after he came along. You'd give up ever seeing stars again for him to come and take you out of this place, smiling that little half-smile and staining you orange.
Your crayons are still on the floor. You need a new black one, for sure. And green, and orange, but you can improvise because you have red and blue and yellow. You haven't touched the blue. You haven't needed it. It's your favorite color, but what did that matter anymore?
You try to make it matter, try to tell yourself the blue feels neglected, why not try drawing something else tomorrow? Maybe draw Toni, her hair was always so pretty. Or that one ghost who didn't try to trash you, he was cool, and blue. Got mad when you called him Casper, though, but not too mad. Yeah, you should draw him. You won't, because you've done this before, and your hand doesn't seem to care what your desperation thinks, so blue will probably remain pristine. No use lying to yourself, you don't want to draw skies or flowers. You want to draw him because he's the only thing on your mind. Either way, it's fine, it's why you're here, in this grey place full of concrete and padding and bars and plastic glass. They want to know your mind. They want to know what makes you tick. They want to know why there was a corpse in your house and why you talk about ghosts and gnomes and pixies and werewolves and just what possessed you to think that man was a zombie?
Hewney knows. He understands you, at least enough to know you aren't completely nuts. He knows the zombie wasn't a delusion. He knows your magic and he wants to help you. And it's sweet, and you like him, because he's like an uncle or something, but in the end, there isn't anything he can do. There's nothing anybody can do. Because the one thing you want is gone forever, and nothing seems to captivate you the way it used to. Sure, things were never all that bright even before you met the zombie, but you could make them bright if you wanted to, and you did, every chance you got. Now, everything was dark without that comforting wash of orange on everything, letting you know everything was all right, vindicating your struggle to survive in the world because he was worth waiting for. He was worth all the shit you'd been through, all the scars and mud and dumpsters and broken beer bottles whizzing inches from your face.
He was worth living for, worth smiling for. You want to smile now, at the memory, but it twists into something ugly and painful and you realize that smiling is really the last thing you want.
You want dry, sure hands in your hair, on your cheeks, your shoulders, your body. You want the deep reverberation of his voice in your ears, drumming through your chest and sending tingles down to your toes. You want that achingly beautiful feeling of loved, of needed. You don't want your friends trying to help you. You don't want them to get you out, what do you want with the world now? It's too much, just too fucking much. You don't want any more chances to love something enough to mourn the loss. You can't handle any more loss. And damned if you're going to take your friends down with you too. You wish Lamont hadn't found you.
The dark grey walls are underwater. You blink it away, but the fishtank refills instantly, drowning your thoughts. What good are they? What's the use of all this fighting?
You curl up on the unfamiliar bed and cry, pretending the hand petting your hair isn't yours.
AGH, HANNA, YOUR DEPRESSION CUTS A HOLE IN MY SOOOOUUUL
Gonna do a few POV breaks before I get to the court case. Totally not stalling because I don't know anything about court proceedings, yeah...
Aaaaand, Can't Keep Secrets is still on hold because I have trouble writing porn if more than one person is involved. XD