vodoro is being dramatic

Sophie understands that she is tired, when the sounds around seem threatening and cause a ripple of goosebumps on the skin. She hasn't slept more than two hours at a time for, probably, about a week already? And this was affecting the nerves clearly not well. A nervous tic twitches at her cheek every time someone just starts to say something. "Oh, I think..." — "No, shut up, you don't think. This is not important. This is not important, just shut up. Shut uuuuuuuuuup." — seethes inside. Sophie only clenches her teeth.

She is a leader. She must be fair, cold-blooded, capable and active. She must not sit on the edge of the couch, flinching like a little sparrow, without particular reasons, and stare somewhere at the wall, just to abstract herself from the heated discussion in the living room.

Not the first time, not the second, and not even the third. It is harder to say on which of the evenings of her life Sophie was enough in order, to perceive the surrounding world without the desire to crumple into a paper lump. In the human world, this feeling of helplessness pursued her constantly.

Bla-bla-bla. Rosie is planning to buy a new car, a "Nissan". An ugly brand, actually. Kevin? Where is Kevin? Ah, here he is. He always gets lost, forever. Kevin, do not go far. God, how huge this pillar is, what if it falls right now? Oh, fuck. Wow! Tires, tires.. Hand over the order, pick up the order, buy Mary marshmallows, do not forget to write in the calendar that Daisy has an appointment with a psychologist in a month. Fucking freaks, I hate them. Poof! Poof! Mitosis is... meiosis.. mm, cool jeans. I will quit someday, I fucking swear.

Endlessly and from everywhere, it was enough just to take a step into a store or a bus. Other people's thoughts grow dull in the brain, shake and mix. Eyes glaze over, shoulders draw up, the spine tightens like a string. Sophie presses herself against the nearest vertical surface and looks at the people around with a pleading look. But no one will ever understand what she wants. And she wants them to stop thinking so much. She wants other people's curses not to roar in her head. She wants to forget some thoughts and images that so inopportunely were transmitted to a seven-year-old little telepath.

At home, all limbs go numb. The veins, by sensation, tighten into little knots and stretch, stretch, stretch. The lower jaw trembles, muscles freeze. Sophie hides under the blanket, so that at least she can see nothing. Sophie does not cry, just so as not to feel the wetness on her cheeks. She will not endure even more sensations today.

Day after day, day after day, until massive headphones are immortalized on her ears, and her fingers end up bitten bloody.

At home, all limbs go numb. The veins, by sensation, tighten into little knots and stretch, stretch, stretch. The lower jaw trembles, muscles freeze. Sophie hides under the blanket, so that at least she can see nothing. Sophie does not cry, just so as not to feel the wetness on her cheeks. She will not endure even more sensations today.

Day after day, day after day, until massive headphones are immortalized on her ears, and her fingers end up bitten bloody.

The Lost cities met her with blissful silence.

She remembered that trees rustle. That footsteps thud dully. That hands rustle, if you run them over something crunchy. And all these soft-rustling-gentle sounds were so pleasant to hear, that she wanted to hug something tightly and smile from ear to ear. Because in the headphones, all of this is not heard, and without them, everything is drowned out by the hubbub of other people's voices. Even in the garden, her mother's thoughts from the kitchen reached her, like annoying shouts. So no, before the elven lawns, she could not remember what it was like to hear. And, having remembered, she could not stop rejoicing.

And then everything spun around, whirled around, the amount of rest per day began to decrease in geometric progression, and here she already finds herself crying over a glass that clinked too loudly, or unable to get into the shower, or with her eyes squeezed shut, because the blue towels are of the wrong blue color, such an unpleasant one, angry.

In short, a cheerless situation. A familiar one, but cheerless.

Sophie sighs, seeing her friends off from the house. She tries to relax her shoulders and waves after Biana, with difficulty stretching out a smile, and then turns around.

"You look unwell."

Sophie screams.

After a few seconds, having caught her breath, she looks at Keefe with an unhappy, almost betrayed look.

Keefe smiles, although his eyes look with sympathy. Lately, he has been making frequent visits with that expression on his face. And now he is also staying after meetings.

"No, I understand, work, research, travels, all that...but you look even more exhausted than usual. Believe me, it looks horrifying."

He makes an oblique nod downward, pointing at her trembling hand. Sophie clenches her fists, but remains silent.

Someone else's voice resonates with vibrations in her chest. Squeezes her lungs and unpleasantly tickles them. Makes her heart beat with interruptions, swell and deflate every time the intonation rises or drops.

Sophie feels that her face is blurring into a sad grimace, and hits herself on the lips with her fist with her index finger extended. Sh-sh-sh. This gesture means "be quiet". Her fingers instantly unclench and cover her mouth in shame. Her eyes water. She shrivels up and looks as if she is ready to slide onto the floor. Sirens and echoes of other people's phrases howl in her ears. A round dance of laughter, comments and out-of-context remarks deafens her, strikes a gong, screams into both ears. She must hold on, she must hold on, she must hol— but she cannot, she cannot-cannot-cannot...

"..Hey! What's wrong with you?" Keefe catches her and tips her drooping head onto his shoulder. Noticing another flinch, he tries to lower his tone. "Sophie?"

Sophie breathes heavily. She hears her own noisy sighs and stifles several sobs. She places her hands on someone else's back, to make it more comfortable, and closes her eyes. Consciousness falls somewhere for a few minutes.

Keefe suppressed a gnawing feeling in his stomach and hugged Sophie. He was washed over by another wave of panic, and he clenched his arms tighter. Foster is small and miserable. Just so she wouldn't collapse. She is all trembling and feels so weightless in his arms, like a little owl. A white one, fallen out of the nest and unable to fly.

Keefe tried not to make another sound anymore. Honestly, he didn't know what to do. The only thing that came to his mind was to start rocking from side to side, lulling Foster like a child.

And he did it. Shifting from foot to foot, he soothed her for a good ten minutes. To the right, to the left. To the right, to the left. To the right, to the left. As if it were a waltz. One could say that this was a dream come true, if not for the circumstances. Unfortunately, life gave him not very many reasons to hug the mysterious Miss F. in peace, and not another wearegoingtocrytogetherrightnow situation.

Breathing was becoming calmer and calmer. The anxiety biting at her insides subsided. Foster finally pulls herself out of his arms and wipes her eyes with her sleeve — although there was no need for that, her eyes are dry and meek. Keefe notes with displeasure that without her, standing is many times colder and more unpleasant. Only one thing pleases him: it seems she felt better. Her face is no longer so gray, her brows are not drawn together toward the bridge of her nose, and the knots under her skin are not moving back and forth.

Sophie takes one last deep breath and lifts a hunted gaze to Keefe.

"Sorry, I'm a little tired today..." — she corrects herself when she sees his skepticism, — "...a lot. Very tired. A disgusting day."

She speaks in an undertone, breaking into a whisper. Keefe does not make any remarks. Instead, on the contrary, he adjusts.

"Now, I see, that's more honest. Probably, we'd better reschedule for tomorrow?" He asks quietly, tilting his head like a bird. Foster needs to be grabbed in an armful, wrapped in a blanket and thrown onto the bed, not all of this. He thought about this so intensely, looking into someone else's eyes, that he would not have been surprised if, for the sake of transmitting this thought, his telepathy talent had opened up. It would be nice to sometimes be able to give mental nudges.

"No!" Sophie whispers loudly, shaking her head. "But we'd better go to my room. It's too..." — she couldn't find the right word.

Too bright. Too much furniture. Too many potential visitors — it was unpleasant to think that Edaline or Grady could walk in at any second. They came to see Sophie much less often. It would be better there.

Keefe nods, as if he hadn't needed an explanation at all, so they move to her room.

Sophie leans her back against the side of the bed with relief. Her fingers grip the fibers of the carpet — fluffy, somewhat stiff. She stares at the ceiling. Keefe settles beside her, resting his hand on his bent knee.

It's dark and quiet here. Sophie didn't turn on the main light, and she even dimmed the little one as much as was possible at all. The room looked mysterious and magical. Although she wouldn't have minded getting rid of a couple more lamps — but talking to Keefe in a whisper in complete darkness for half an hour would have been sort of... strange. They didn't discuss anything too personal (within Keefe's limits) — they sketched out a few plans, giggled, commiserated. They didn't come to anything sensible, but some rough outlines were already in place. Because of that, it didn't scratch at her soul quite so terribly.

"I won't do anything stupid, I promise."

Even while whispering, Keefe could convey the right intonation, although now he sounded a little more serious. The theatrical swings of his voice were unavailable to him now, and without them, his words were so soft, cautious. He leans toward her playfully and drops his shoulder onto hers.

Sophie grumbles in response, as usual, but doesn't pull away.

The little knots in her veins come undone. Her shoulders relax. Her muscles come back to life, and lifting her arm no longer feels like a feat.

"You have to stop doing that," Keefe chides her, when Sophie mindlessly plucks out an eyelash.

She shrugs, brings her finger with the eyelash on the tip to her mouth, and makes a wish.

More whispering.

She blows it off.

Keefe raises his eyebrows.