Crossposted from Jack_of_All_Blades on ao3
She sits at the kitchen table, back to the window as morning sunshine slowly stretches across the room. She contemplates the coffee mug in her hands, idly twisting it around. The contents have long since gone cold.
She's a small woman, and though her clothing is loose and comfortable it does nothing to hide how thin she is. The spiky blonde hair falling in her face does nothing to hide how tired she is.
She doesn't sleep well, hasn't really for the last decade or so. She's lost track of time. And this last night was no exception. Every night she revisits burning towns and frigid water, mako glow and puppet strings. But the dreams are the least of it. She had hoped that things would fade back to normal, and it has—for others. She doesn't know what normal feels like for her. Not like there's a hole in her chest, that's for sure. She's never been normal, much as she's wished it.
The edges are no longer jagged and sharp, smoothed with the passage of time and understanding. But the edges are still there, the hole still gapes. She pulls in a breath, faintly glowing eyes watching the slosh of coffee as she tilts her mug this way and that.
It's easier to just not think about it. She's compartmentalized so much over the years.
She contemplates getting up for another cup of coffee but doesn't bother to get up.
A breeze struggles in through the window and drifts past her, ruffles her spiky hair and curls around her hand briefly before fading. Probably tired with the effort of getting past the cracked open window.
She contemplates closing it, wondering why she doesn't remember opening it last night, but doesn't bother to get up.
Her house is old, a farmhouse she'd found derelict outside of Kalm. It's home now, from the faded photos on the walls of friends and family, both alive and dead, to the kitschy chocobo measuring cups that she'd got as a gag gift waiting in the sink. This is home now. She no longer pays attention to creaking floorboards, the house has enough odd sounds.
It's only when she goes to bed that she remembers.
Maybe it's her mind playing tricks on her. It hasn't been the first time. But the voices are gone, have been gone for a while. She doesn't wish them back. But still she wonders. And she hears the house's voice, instead. She lies in bed listening to the house around her, making it's soft, creaking sounds. Telling her to go to sleep.
And she can't, knowing what she knows. The darkness of her bedroom is never entirely black, not with the faint glow of her eyes, but it does nothing to ease the unease that something still lurks there. She's not a child anymore, to fear the monsters under the bed. But she fears the monsters inside her mind.
She twists her head, mug abandoned, as she glances towards the kitchen window.
The window is firmly shut. Has been since last night. She'd closed and locked it in one of her usual fits of paranoia.
Blue eyes drift back to her coffee mug. It's long past cold by now and she has yet to get up. But there's nothing much for her to do, and she simply sits, and thinks.
The breeze is back, caressing her cheek and bringing with it the smell of pine needles and sunshine, the warm earthy smell of coming home. She presses her eyes shut for a moment, a smile hiding in the corners of her mouth. "Thank you, Zack."
The sun feels warmer curled around her back.