@exaltcdone, cont.
( Brighid sniffles, rubs teary eyes with the back of her hand. It’s so late. Or is it early-morning-territory yet– it’s got to be. Well, who’s to say. It doesn’t matter, Brighid’s bedroom is a fathomless wash of grainy indigo-black. In her head, the cushy ottoman at the foot of the bed is a hulking, dormant beast. The pile of blankets heaped on top are no longer cheerful knitted chenille but monster arms, reaching over the footboard to seize her ankles.
Brighid hates the dark. How is she supposed to feel better like this? Her room is full of unseen terrors, she’s sure of it. ) Yes. ( The gruff rasp of Bertie’s voice beside her is a comfort so welcome Brighid hardly has any speech to answer it. Instead, she tremulously reaches for Bertie’s hand and finds its heel and her wrist instead. ) Always. ( She echoes, brushing her palm with her index finger. ) –I- I love you.
‘ i love you, too, ’ she answers, the words bookended by roberta working her jaw and staring pinch-browed at the ceiling. it isn’t until something flashes across it — maybe something brighid can’t see, maybe exclusive to her own fiddly realm-not-realm — that it occurs to her just what must be wrong.
with a jump to action, as if physically walloped with the realization, bertie twists in bed (without letting go, of course), strikes a match behind her teeth, and lights the two well-used candles on her bedside table.
‘ baby, what on earth are you doin’ awake? ’ guilt and worry do wonders in the way of clearing her head. ‘ why wouldn’t you tell me? you know i got no problem with havin’ the lights on. ’
