Too late now. Need to go. Can't breathe in here, not in the hallway or the stairwell, not until she's back outside. She barely remembers leaving the apartment, almost as soon as she's outside, everything is all blurred together, everything since the rift pulled her in.
She shudders violently and her arm doesn't move with her, a heavy dead weight. Squeezes her eyes shut against the very close memory and all she sees is Greta and Rush looking at her with, with pity, with-
She walks into the street. Cars screech to a halt, horns blaring around her, some just swerve caustically around her. Whatever. She's already fucked and she's got places to be.
She feels the prickle and sting of eyes much more acutely now, like they all know, like they can see that dead arm for what it is, not just an arm hanging casually at her side - no, no, she realizes, catching the eye of one woman in particular, an obvious tourist with a five year old by the hand, scowling at her from a distance. Oh, right. Look everyone, a Muslim. Apparently that's a big fucking deal here.
She looks back for a while. It used to be so easy to ignore that. These thoughtless people with their mindless prejudices, what do they matter? The people who matter to her don't give a shit. And she can take care of herself. Ain't nobody scares her.
Well, now what. One-armed and weaponless. Now the stares dig at her and the grimaces, the looks of pity, god, it's too fucking much. She reaches up abruptly and rips the hijab off, wrapping it over her shoulder, under her arm, knotting it awkwardly with one hand and her teeth. It's painful and difficult but she pulls it off, hey look everyone, now she has a nice colorful sling. Stare at her for that.
That's better.
That's why she's worth noting now. Get it right.
She keeps walking. She doesn't know why, apart from why the fuck not, but she's heading for Carl Schurz.
Greta's hurt, cold Fine rings in her ears.
She reaches the river's edge, approximately where she stood this morning, and stares at it. The breeze is cooler off the water and she shivers, unaccustomed to having her ears exposed. The involuntary motion almost knocks her loose, and she draws a shaky breath, dangerously close to tears. No. Fuck you. No.
"I was just curious," she mutters. "Why did you have to - I was just trying to..."
She stops. She's being stupid, like a little kid. Arguing with things that aren't there, might not even be able to hear her.
She wraps her arm around herself, willingly pulling at the sore muscles in her shoulder, and for a while she just wishes she could disappear again, if not for good then at least fucking quietly.
dissociation, self-endangerment, lateral bigotry
Shit.
Too late now. Need to go. Can't breathe in here, not in the hallway or the stairwell, not until she's back outside. She barely remembers leaving the apartment, almost as soon as she's outside, everything is all blurred together, everything since the rift pulled her in.
She shudders violently and her arm doesn't move with her, a heavy dead weight. Squeezes her eyes shut against the very close memory and all she sees is Greta and Rush looking at her with, with pity, with-
She walks into the street. Cars screech to a halt, horns blaring around her, some just swerve caustically around her. Whatever. She's already fucked and she's got places to be.
She feels the prickle and sting of eyes much more acutely now, like they all know, like they can see that dead arm for what it is, not just an arm hanging casually at her side - no, no, she realizes, catching the eye of one woman in particular, an obvious tourist with a five year old by the hand, scowling at her from a distance. Oh, right. Look everyone, a Muslim. Apparently that's a big fucking deal here.
She looks back for a while. It used to be so easy to ignore that. These thoughtless people with their mindless prejudices, what do they matter? The people who matter to her don't give a shit. And she can take care of herself. Ain't nobody scares her.
Well, now what. One-armed and weaponless. Now the stares dig at her and the grimaces, the looks of pity, god, it's too fucking much. She reaches up abruptly and rips the hijab off, wrapping it over her shoulder, under her arm, knotting it awkwardly with one hand and her teeth. It's painful and difficult but she pulls it off, hey look everyone, now she has a nice colorful sling. Stare at her for that.
That's better.
That's why she's worth noting now. Get it right.
She keeps walking. She doesn't know why, apart from why the fuck not, but she's heading for Carl Schurz.
Greta's hurt, cold Fine rings in her ears.
She reaches the river's edge, approximately where she stood this morning, and stares at it. The breeze is cooler off the water and she shivers, unaccustomed to having her ears exposed. The involuntary motion almost knocks her loose, and she draws a shaky breath, dangerously close to tears. No. Fuck you. No.
"I was just curious," she mutters. "Why did you have to - I was just trying to..."
She stops. She's being stupid, like a little kid. Arguing with things that aren't there, might not even be able to hear her.
She wraps her arm around herself, willingly pulling at the sore muscles in her shoulder, and for a while she just wishes she could disappear again, if not for good then at least fucking quietly.