I wake slowly, the darkness surrounding me as sleep gradually seeping away
as I lay there, paralyzed by tiredness. Instantly I curl up tighter; Clara
hasn't woken me yet, so I must have just a few more moments, at least.
But sleep slips away faster with these thoughts, and as I am forced awake to a darkness almost as dark as that of sleep I'm forced to remember the events of earlier, the events I've been trying to ignore and escape from for a while, but they keep catching up to me. I'm still captive, still hostage in this cage, this prison of theirs, and Clara won't be coming to help.
I force myself to sit up, to stand, slapping myself across the face to relieve myself from tiredness, but it doesn't work as well as one of Clara's kicks to the base of the tale I've been complaining about for six years. I stretch, touching my toes, stretching my tail out straight. Standing, I stretch my arms above my head as far as I can, then further, until they begin to ache from the effort. Sitting on the floor, I spread my legs as far as I can. They form a large triangle, and further. . . I struggle until they're nearly in a straight line with my body, sweat popping out on my face from the effort of keeping aching joints from lazing for a few days. I shouldn't be doing this, should be resting for a long seven hours and doing no more then necessary until I've recovered from my overuse of magic, but if I do I'll get rusty, reflexes slow, and stamina lower than necessary to survive. And I NEED to survive.
Letting my legs pop close, they nearly refuse to do as I tell them when I get up again. Grabbing one of the few horizontal bars keeping the vertical ones in place, I haul myself to my feet, ignoring protests as weary muscles are forced to work. My legs wobble underneath me, but I stand as still as possible and physically hold them in place until they feel firm.
My tail comes forward with some thought; after a few weeks of it being stuck behind my body it reacts sluggishly to mental commands I no longer realize I'm making. Stroking it with trembling fingers, I massage every inch to bring life into it once more, as it long ago went numb and the feeling still hasn't quite returned. Sitting down hard suddenly from a sudden leg rebellion, the tingling in my tail makes me gasp loudly. It almost makes me cry out in pain as long cramped muscles begin to sting once more. My legs hurt so badly I can barely use them, my arms ache in every way imaginable, and my tail feels as though it'd be better cut off.
I grit my teeth and widen my watering eyes, the pain making breathing painful. Leaning forward to attempt and lie flat on the floor, an easy stretch after so many years of practice, I instead fall over on my side, resisting muscles nearly killing me from overuse. This COULD be the reason Uncle never allowed us to do much after being exhausted, this immense pain that cripples my every limb and makes even breathing so much of a struggle I begin to wonder if it's worth doing. But I only wonder that for a few moments, as sleep is struggling to reclaim me, despite the pain from my aching limbs. But I can't, I hear a creaking that can only mean my prison is being drawn somewhere, most likely to have this covering that gives this place its unnatural night, which also means I seriously overslept.
I can't let them see me with this weakness, and so I crawl over to the private area, using the tips of my fingers to shut it firmly behind me and lie there, panting, on the ground as muscles scream protest in every way imaginable. Holding as still as possible, I close my eyes and breathe in for the count of ten, then breathe out for the same amount of time. Slowly breathing in, slowly breathing out, in, out, my muscles relax gradually, making the pain go down to a barely noticeable level. Breathing slowly, I attempt to move my muscles and feel a few tears slide out of my eyes as they renew their protest vigorously, but then stop, lowering the pain to a tolerable, if very noticeable, level. Standing takes more effort, an almost impossible amount of pain, but I tolerate it with clenched teeth and a lip nearly popping out of my jaw its stick so far forward.
Hands clenching involuntarily in an effort to tolerate the pain, I walk a few steps forward and open the door. The light nearly blinds me, and I squint for a few seconds before walking to the small sleeping platform and sitting down. Rubbing my legs a few times I hear yet another creak above me, and the walls begin to move downward. Or, more precisely, I begin to move upward, toward the ceiling and the trapdoor where my captors wait. I begin shaking; I have to deal with them yet AGAIN?!?!?! Taking deep breaths and holding them, I feel my shakes decrease. I should've remembered this earlier!! I continue doing so as the cage rises, slowing my shakes to a stop. I look up from my lap fearfully, just in time to see King Zidane locking the trapdoor, keeping me prison here once more.
~*^~*^~*^~*^~*^~*^~*^~*^~*^~*^~*^~*^~*^~*^~*^~*^~*^~*^~*^~*^~*^~*^~*^~
Eika: (rubbing head) OW!
Clara: I swear, you must be the only person to get inspiration headaches.
Eika: What? It feels like someone's holding a pillow to the inside of my skull!! It always does this when I get inspired!!
Clara: You're insane. Thanking your classmates for inspiration.
Eika: Hey, if for some reason I'm getting inspiration while I have headaches, I won't complain. If an average of five students in my class get ISS (in school suspension) daily, and another three sent out from every class, I won't complain because they give me inspiration.
Clara: You're insane.
Eika: Thank you. Also, I don't know WHEN one kid last got through 5 minutes of history without being sent out. He's failing bad, but history is nearly the quietest class now.
Clara: Another reason to dislike social studies?
Eika: Yup.
But sleep slips away faster with these thoughts, and as I am forced awake to a darkness almost as dark as that of sleep I'm forced to remember the events of earlier, the events I've been trying to ignore and escape from for a while, but they keep catching up to me. I'm still captive, still hostage in this cage, this prison of theirs, and Clara won't be coming to help.
I force myself to sit up, to stand, slapping myself across the face to relieve myself from tiredness, but it doesn't work as well as one of Clara's kicks to the base of the tale I've been complaining about for six years. I stretch, touching my toes, stretching my tail out straight. Standing, I stretch my arms above my head as far as I can, then further, until they begin to ache from the effort. Sitting on the floor, I spread my legs as far as I can. They form a large triangle, and further. . . I struggle until they're nearly in a straight line with my body, sweat popping out on my face from the effort of keeping aching joints from lazing for a few days. I shouldn't be doing this, should be resting for a long seven hours and doing no more then necessary until I've recovered from my overuse of magic, but if I do I'll get rusty, reflexes slow, and stamina lower than necessary to survive. And I NEED to survive.
Letting my legs pop close, they nearly refuse to do as I tell them when I get up again. Grabbing one of the few horizontal bars keeping the vertical ones in place, I haul myself to my feet, ignoring protests as weary muscles are forced to work. My legs wobble underneath me, but I stand as still as possible and physically hold them in place until they feel firm.
My tail comes forward with some thought; after a few weeks of it being stuck behind my body it reacts sluggishly to mental commands I no longer realize I'm making. Stroking it with trembling fingers, I massage every inch to bring life into it once more, as it long ago went numb and the feeling still hasn't quite returned. Sitting down hard suddenly from a sudden leg rebellion, the tingling in my tail makes me gasp loudly. It almost makes me cry out in pain as long cramped muscles begin to sting once more. My legs hurt so badly I can barely use them, my arms ache in every way imaginable, and my tail feels as though it'd be better cut off.
I grit my teeth and widen my watering eyes, the pain making breathing painful. Leaning forward to attempt and lie flat on the floor, an easy stretch after so many years of practice, I instead fall over on my side, resisting muscles nearly killing me from overuse. This COULD be the reason Uncle never allowed us to do much after being exhausted, this immense pain that cripples my every limb and makes even breathing so much of a struggle I begin to wonder if it's worth doing. But I only wonder that for a few moments, as sleep is struggling to reclaim me, despite the pain from my aching limbs. But I can't, I hear a creaking that can only mean my prison is being drawn somewhere, most likely to have this covering that gives this place its unnatural night, which also means I seriously overslept.
I can't let them see me with this weakness, and so I crawl over to the private area, using the tips of my fingers to shut it firmly behind me and lie there, panting, on the ground as muscles scream protest in every way imaginable. Holding as still as possible, I close my eyes and breathe in for the count of ten, then breathe out for the same amount of time. Slowly breathing in, slowly breathing out, in, out, my muscles relax gradually, making the pain go down to a barely noticeable level. Breathing slowly, I attempt to move my muscles and feel a few tears slide out of my eyes as they renew their protest vigorously, but then stop, lowering the pain to a tolerable, if very noticeable, level. Standing takes more effort, an almost impossible amount of pain, but I tolerate it with clenched teeth and a lip nearly popping out of my jaw its stick so far forward.
Hands clenching involuntarily in an effort to tolerate the pain, I walk a few steps forward and open the door. The light nearly blinds me, and I squint for a few seconds before walking to the small sleeping platform and sitting down. Rubbing my legs a few times I hear yet another creak above me, and the walls begin to move downward. Or, more precisely, I begin to move upward, toward the ceiling and the trapdoor where my captors wait. I begin shaking; I have to deal with them yet AGAIN?!?!?! Taking deep breaths and holding them, I feel my shakes decrease. I should've remembered this earlier!! I continue doing so as the cage rises, slowing my shakes to a stop. I look up from my lap fearfully, just in time to see King Zidane locking the trapdoor, keeping me prison here once more.
~*^~*^~*^~*^~*^~*^~*^~*^~*^~*^~*^~*^~*^~*^~*^~*^~*^~*^~*^~*^~*^~*^~*^~
Eika: (rubbing head) OW!
Clara: I swear, you must be the only person to get inspiration headaches.
Eika: What? It feels like someone's holding a pillow to the inside of my skull!! It always does this when I get inspired!!
Clara: You're insane. Thanking your classmates for inspiration.
Eika: Hey, if for some reason I'm getting inspiration while I have headaches, I won't complain. If an average of five students in my class get ISS (in school suspension) daily, and another three sent out from every class, I won't complain because they give me inspiration.
Clara: You're insane.
Eika: Thank you. Also, I don't know WHEN one kid last got through 5 minutes of history without being sent out. He's failing bad, but history is nearly the quietest class now.
Clara: Another reason to dislike social studies?
Eika: Yup.
