Mika Whitepaws (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
wolfishsurvivalist) wrote2015-06-12 11:38 am
wolfishsurvivalist) wrote2015-06-12 11:38 am
Entry tags:
✖ anxiety attack: 001 ✖ Epilogue ✖
At first she'd awoken with a start. Horrified as she ran through a house that no longer seemed familiar, yanking open doors and slamming them shut, prowling like a caged beast before fleeing outside. Staring at the hazy May sky in bewilderment, the grass and flowers, the cinderblock walls enclosing it. Unable to comprehend, she didn't even hear people calling her name even as she went back through the house to the front door, walking across the dying front lawn in the (blistering, she was starting to notice) heat. Standing on the cracked sidewalk, she stared at the road, hearing the roar of traffic on the main streets, smelling the choking thickness of the car fumes.
It was completely overwhelming.
Dazed by the noises, the smells, and the heat Mika didn't hear her name being shouted. Didn't notice the frantic press of a cold nose to her limp hand, barely registered being scooped up in a crushing hug as the entire family descended upon her and barraged her with questions. Her head spun, the sensory overload so much that she fainted in the heat.
The first few weeks were impossible to comprehend. Nothing was where it should be, nothing smelled right. Frantic searches through her room for trinkets that had been within easy grabbing distance for years but now were nowhere to be found drove her halfway mad with panic. The fact that her memories alone were starting to feel disjointed and hazy was only making things worse, and soon she found herself grabbing for books, hastily writing whatever she could before it became lost.
She didn't have time to explain the sudden appearance of the dog that came home with her. Too many things were slipping from her and she needed to write everything. Questions were waved off, food almost completely ignored, and Mika wrote until the moon was high in the sky and sleep was a rare and fickle friend. It came and went, and she found herself startling awake and writing more, as memories came back in her sleep but were twice as quick to abandon her when she awoke.
The first few months were a blur, journals and notebooks and sketchbooks piling up in her room, dated and numbered in as close to chronological order as she could make them, unsure which memories were jumbled now and which were not. Finally she unlatched herself from her room and opened up a little at a time, but still the dreams haunted her now. It was different from before, the dreams made her heart ache instead of filling her with terror. She woke up crying from loss instead of fear, clutching the dog to her like Zita was her only lifeline back to the place she could still almost feel and smell and see even if it was just out of the corners of her eyes and in the place between waking and dreaming.
Fall tried to scorch the memories of cool pine trees and a glittering pond from her memory. The heat was worse than ever, even the tar in the streets unable to handle the mercilessness of it. A face filled her thoughts, crowned in dappled leaves and dark red berries, and she dragged herself off the couch and out into the ravenous autumn heat to find what she needed.
That's when the paintings began.
They took longer than she wanted, but finding the right colors was a trial, the supplies quickly exhausting what was left of her savings and forcing her back into looking for work. Whatever could get her the money for the paints she needed. She moved through the world outside like a ghost, Zita at her side with a vest that kept anyone from forcing the dog away from her, fueled only by the desire to finish the paintings. Nothing seemed to render the portraits the way she could see them in her mind. No tools at her disposal were good enough. None of the leaves that she found on her walks through the city matched the ones she remembered. Scents were wrong, the colors too dull. Frustration nearly had her clawing through the canvases but she restrained herself, staring at them with a mind that was nearly on fire with a feverish desire to see the work done.
Looking for a way back to escape the hot "winter" proved fruitless. No matter how hard she tried it was impossible. While she never gave up hope, she did hold off on the search, pouring all her energy into the paintings until they came as close to being finished as she could make them.
The were all wrong, but she couldn't quite remember the color of the cub's freckles anymore, which made her heart ache so deeply she thought it could be the death of her.
It was completely overwhelming.
Dazed by the noises, the smells, and the heat Mika didn't hear her name being shouted. Didn't notice the frantic press of a cold nose to her limp hand, barely registered being scooped up in a crushing hug as the entire family descended upon her and barraged her with questions. Her head spun, the sensory overload so much that she fainted in the heat.
The first few weeks were impossible to comprehend. Nothing was where it should be, nothing smelled right. Frantic searches through her room for trinkets that had been within easy grabbing distance for years but now were nowhere to be found drove her halfway mad with panic. The fact that her memories alone were starting to feel disjointed and hazy was only making things worse, and soon she found herself grabbing for books, hastily writing whatever she could before it became lost.
She didn't have time to explain the sudden appearance of the dog that came home with her. Too many things were slipping from her and she needed to write everything. Questions were waved off, food almost completely ignored, and Mika wrote until the moon was high in the sky and sleep was a rare and fickle friend. It came and went, and she found herself startling awake and writing more, as memories came back in her sleep but were twice as quick to abandon her when she awoke.
The first few months were a blur, journals and notebooks and sketchbooks piling up in her room, dated and numbered in as close to chronological order as she could make them, unsure which memories were jumbled now and which were not. Finally she unlatched herself from her room and opened up a little at a time, but still the dreams haunted her now. It was different from before, the dreams made her heart ache instead of filling her with terror. She woke up crying from loss instead of fear, clutching the dog to her like Zita was her only lifeline back to the place she could still almost feel and smell and see even if it was just out of the corners of her eyes and in the place between waking and dreaming.
Fall tried to scorch the memories of cool pine trees and a glittering pond from her memory. The heat was worse than ever, even the tar in the streets unable to handle the mercilessness of it. A face filled her thoughts, crowned in dappled leaves and dark red berries, and she dragged herself off the couch and out into the ravenous autumn heat to find what she needed.
That's when the paintings began.
They took longer than she wanted, but finding the right colors was a trial, the supplies quickly exhausting what was left of her savings and forcing her back into looking for work. Whatever could get her the money for the paints she needed. She moved through the world outside like a ghost, Zita at her side with a vest that kept anyone from forcing the dog away from her, fueled only by the desire to finish the paintings. Nothing seemed to render the portraits the way she could see them in her mind. No tools at her disposal were good enough. None of the leaves that she found on her walks through the city matched the ones she remembered. Scents were wrong, the colors too dull. Frustration nearly had her clawing through the canvases but she restrained herself, staring at them with a mind that was nearly on fire with a feverish desire to see the work done.
Looking for a way back to escape the hot "winter" proved fruitless. No matter how hard she tried it was impossible. While she never gave up hope, she did hold off on the search, pouring all her energy into the paintings until they came as close to being finished as she could make them.
The were all wrong, but she couldn't quite remember the color of the cub's freckles anymore, which made her heart ache so deeply she thought it could be the death of her.