And Suzie's not sure how to answer that, considering that, until the Vesmier pointed it out, she had no idea there was anything there at all.
Even now, she wants very much to not think about it, her focus slipping away the moment she wavers in examining the structure.
And she considers that fact with a growing sense of anger, until, with a mental snarl she starts bringing up and cataloguing everything around it. Even if she doesn't want to look at it, she can learn its shape. Once she's learnt its shape, she'll work out a next step. This is what she does, in or out of her own mind.
Details surrounding: she'd met a man. She knows that much, even if his face escapes her. A very charming man. They talked -- they must have talked, though she can't remember about what. Her focus slides away when she looks at it. Right. She's sure they had sex. The pleasure, she remembers, at least a moment of it, pleasure and a loss of control that terrified her in retrospect. The next morning, bruised and hurting, with no real knowledge of how she got that way, wondering if she'd uncharacteristically had too much to drink, and feeling strangely disinclined to question further. Taking off work for a few days, letting herself heal, showering compulsively, as though she could never get herself completely clean. Feeling sick. Crying, for no good rea--
Wait.
She won't let this get away from her.
Triggers for crying: Songs that she heard, a certain rhythm that filled her with dread... A certain cut of suit... The word Saxon on some historical drama or another, which was enough to send her into a state approaching an hysterical fit.
And then it had passed, and she didn't think anything of it.
And it was, perhaps, three weeks before she'd come through the Rift.
...she's getting angrier by the moment, but she locks it down, shoves it back, for the sake of the guest in her mind, if nothing else.
But there's something there, something she's missing.
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Even now, she wants very much to not think about it, her focus slipping away the moment she wavers in examining the structure.
And she considers that fact with a growing sense of anger, until, with a mental snarl she starts bringing up and cataloguing everything around it. Even if she doesn't want to look at it, she can learn its shape. Once she's learnt its shape, she'll work out a next step. This is what she does, in or out of her own mind.
Details surrounding: she'd met a man. She knows that much, even if his face escapes her. A very charming man. They talked -- they must have talked, though she can't remember about what. Her focus slides away when she looks at it. Right. She's sure they had sex. The pleasure, she remembers, at least a moment of it, pleasure and a loss of control that terrified her in retrospect. The next morning, bruised and hurting, with no real knowledge of how she got that way, wondering if she'd uncharacteristically had too much to drink, and feeling strangely disinclined to question further. Taking off work for a few days, letting herself heal, showering compulsively, as though she could never get herself completely clean. Feeling sick. Crying, for no good rea--
Wait.
She won't let this get away from her.
Triggers for crying: Songs that she heard, a certain rhythm that filled her with dread... A certain cut of suit... The word Saxon on some historical drama or another, which was enough to send her into a state approaching an hysterical fit.
And then it had passed, and she didn't think anything of it.
And it was, perhaps, three weeks before she'd come through the Rift.
...she's getting angrier by the moment, but she locks it down, shoves it back, for the sake of the guest in her mind, if nothing else.
But there's something there, something she's missing.