#self.all

Santana woke with a start at promptly seven o’clock - as per usual.

Santana woke with a sweet relief - that was unusual.

Santana than drowned in an anxiety cloaked as vile that churned her stomach. It was empty of any edible contents so it was quickly and easily gutted like a snake slinking inside a beauty queen’s pill bottle insides - that was usual.

A quick dash into the bathroom the vile was gone, she was cleansed, light again - that was usual.  

Then the unusual struck; she wasn’t at the Lopez residence, but Evans. And there it was again, a sweet serenade of peace that she couldn’t quite swallow. Too large, too rough, too unusual, unwelcomed - she say’s the last ‘statement’, with a big bright question mark at the end - but silently, metaphorically, she smothered the feeling close to her chest. She wasn’t ready to lose it just yet. It was nice, even if it felt like the sweet confusing relief she saw in a stranger’s eyes once who was dehydrated to the point his mouth was thick with dryness when her brother handed him a cold glass of water with glass shards in it in the midst of the torture he had been ensuing on the stranger. The tortured stranger seemed thankful, but crazed with the thought: when would it end? Unlike that stranger, though, Santana wasn’t asking such a question because she had glass shards to pass, but because hope always ended - abruptly.

Santana woke with a start at promptly seven o’clock - as per usual.

Santana woke with a sweet relief - that was unusual.

Santana than drowned in an anxiety cloaked as vile that churned her stomach; empty of any edible contents, it was quickly gutted like a snake slinking inside a beauty queen’s pill bottle insides - that was usual.

A quick dash into the bathroom the vile was gone, she was cleansed, light again - that was usual.  

Then the unusual struck; she wasn’t at the Lopez residence, but Evans. And there it was again, a sweet serenade of peace that she couldn’t quite swallow. Too large, too rough, too unusual, unwelcomed - she say’s the last ‘statement’, with a big bright question mark at the end - but silently, metaphorically, she smothered the feeling close to her chest. She wasn’t ready to lose it just yet. It was nice, even if it felt like the sweet confusing relief she saw in a stranger’s eyes once who was dehydrated to the point his mouth was thick with dryness when her brother handed him a cold glass of water with glass shards in it in the midst of the torture he had been ensuing on the stranger. He seemed thankful, but crazed with the thought: when would it end? Unlike that stranger though Santana wasn’t asking such a question because she had glass shards to pass, but because hope always ended - abruptly.