It's a bit surreal sometimes... a little strange and abnormal. This is my narrative style, for anybody who's never seen it before. Enjoy my miserable little drabble about the span of five hours.
And so the world comes into view after nine hours of sleep. Sleep that was much like a stint in death; dreamless, empty, black and silent. Unmoving. Nothing. A nine hour stint in the world that isn't a world, but rather a lack of. This was sleep. But now the creature gasps softly and regains life, and a world settles back into place. Objects form as if clouds of dust just fall from space and arrange into miscellaneous shapes that make up a bedroom's setting. The creature sits upright slowly, and rubs at its weary pair of windows.
The creature begins to take up a form... humanesque, feminine. And so it is declared that this being is a young woman, and she's slowly coming into full consciousness. But wait! Her eyebrows are furrowed in a miserable downward angle, and her forehead wrinkles with signs of distress. She is not a happy creature, and her hands raise to her temples and begin to press in. Her fingers dig in and run slow, hard circles. The eyes of the woman well with water, and she lays herself back into her blankets.
The body curls up into a tense ball -- one so tight and small that the structure of the body should be unable to maintain such a shape. But it maintains, and the female produces a sound. A weak mumble of sorts, muffled in the blanket as she seeks refuge in the dark warmth of the sheets. And while the warmth is soothing, the faint drumming reverberates off the skull, and there is vibrations of pain. With each cycle of pulses, the pounding intensifies. Inside of her skull must be a creature, setting upon a set of drums with vicious intensity, slamming its fists upon the skin of the drums with such force it rattles all the airwaves. And she writhes, unable to maintain comfort.
And time slips by, rapidly in reality but torturously slow in her personal realm. The minutes are years, and the hours are centuries, increasing her agony by tenfold as a century lapses. By the second century, the windows of our female flood over, unable to hold the heated droplets of pain that have been produced. Her body sets quivering, no longer able to maintain its spherical position. The light sharpens into miserable daggers, throwing themselves at her eyes and forcing their way through the natural shields that try to protect them. As a magnifying lens intensifies the heat until it eventually sets an innocent ant ablaze, every fiber in the woman's eyes burst into fireballs. And no matter how much liquid the wells of this woman produces, the tormenting flames will not be ceased. She claws her eyes furiously with trembling hands, but nothing is accomplished.
By the arrival of the third century, the drumming has turned to thunderous cannon fire, shooting ammunition with such force that the balls can be felt bouncing off the walls of the skull that imprisons them. The creature in her head is desperate for escape, and fires repeatedly, wracking her head with miserable pangs that pulsate through her entire body. Her core has became unstable and churns viciously, and shivers of nausea entwine with the quivers of pain. The chords in her throat move slightly, occasionally, producing cries of misery that can nowhere near explain the torture and violence that grips her body. But she communicates her agony to an audience of none, and the walls have no sympathy for her. The furniture stares with a stoic, uncaring silence... it matters not to them what anguish their resident suffers. And so they watch.
Fourth century, and her miserable sobs turn into pathetic pleas for relief. She has tried to return to her hibernating state, but there is too much violence in her body to allow her restful passage into sanctuary. Her fingers dig into pillows and clutch tightly to the blanket around her, but they utter no noise. They offer no more assistance than what little they can provide: warmth, comfort, and darkness. She continues to ravage and attack these objects, silenced by her own realization that she is alone to fight the problem.
But, finally, the cannonfire is slowing, and the churning waves of her middle are starting to settle. And for a moment, she opens her eyes and faces the daggers of the light for the first time in centuries. But it still burns painfully, and she closes her windows to the world again.
And finally, she transitions. Back into the psuedo night... back into the calm state of empty nothing.
And she sleeps until the fifth century arrives.
Five hundred years, and the war of this one little world has come to an end. Weakly, the woman creeps out of her bed, and attempts to resume living as normal. But she'll never forget the five centuries of pained view that brought her through so much in just a single day.
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