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Apr. 6th, 2014 03:13 pmThe first thing she notices is the headache.
It's too bright in their room and there's a pounding behind one of her eyes, a throbbing too intense to be just a regular headache and she lifts one of her hands to press the heel of her palm against her eye, trying to blot out the light or the pain or something long enough that she can maybe get up and stumble to the bathroom to get some painkillers. There's a thump from somewhere, like someone banging on the door and she has this memory of a barricade, of her dresser pushed in front of her bedroom door, piled high with various things from around her bedroom, of someone slamming into the door and things toppling off. The memory comes with another sharp blast of pain behind her eye and she groans uncomfortably, pressing her face deeper into the pillow.
"Fuckin' Bryce," she mumbles, the name spilling out of her without thought and she has no idea why she's thinking of him right now. Or why she's thinking of him at all. Or who he is. She frowns into her pillow, because that isn't right, she knows who he is. Or she does now, anyway, and she's not sure why.
Bryce Craine. Son of Frank Craine. Step-brother to Tara and Charmaine Craine.
"Jesus fucking Christ," she mutters as she turns over onto her back, both her eyes flying open. It doesn't make sense, but this is something that happened after she arrived on the island and somehow she remembers it now like it happened to her. Tara had a new alter. A bunch of new alters. Shoshana and Chicken and... Bryce. And he was killing the other alters.
She stares up at the ceiling, listening to Newt breathing beside her, trying to work out how she can know all this -- and not just know it, but feel like she's lived it, too -- for a long time before she notices there's something different about the room itself.
The walls are pink. And the bed is smaller. There's a green froggy alarm clock on the bedside table. A Bad Religion sticker on the bed frame right above her head. If she twists her body slightly, she can see the door that leads into the bathroom she used to share with Marshall. Her heart begins to pound heavily in her chest as the pain in her head begins to dissipate and she has to look over at Newt lying beside her to make sure he's really here. Then she reaches over and touches him, her hand groping along the curve of his shoulder as she tries not to panic.
He's here. He's really here.
But here is her bedroom in Overland Park, Kansas. Here is no longer Darrow.
"Oh, god," she breathes, catching sight of his glasses on the bedside table beside him. Something has brought them both here, something has thrown them into Kansas and it's brought Newt's glasses, but not their dog and not their home and not their clothes. "Oh, god," she says again. "Holy fucking shit. Newt, you have to wake up, but don't freak out. Just... don't freak out."
She has to figure out a way to deal with this.
Down the hall, she can hear someone moving and her eyes widen. She has to figure out a way to explain this to her parents.
It's too bright in their room and there's a pounding behind one of her eyes, a throbbing too intense to be just a regular headache and she lifts one of her hands to press the heel of her palm against her eye, trying to blot out the light or the pain or something long enough that she can maybe get up and stumble to the bathroom to get some painkillers. There's a thump from somewhere, like someone banging on the door and she has this memory of a barricade, of her dresser pushed in front of her bedroom door, piled high with various things from around her bedroom, of someone slamming into the door and things toppling off. The memory comes with another sharp blast of pain behind her eye and she groans uncomfortably, pressing her face deeper into the pillow.
"Fuckin' Bryce," she mumbles, the name spilling out of her without thought and she has no idea why she's thinking of him right now. Or why she's thinking of him at all. Or who he is. She frowns into her pillow, because that isn't right, she knows who he is. Or she does now, anyway, and she's not sure why.
Bryce Craine. Son of Frank Craine. Step-brother to Tara and Charmaine Craine.
"Jesus fucking Christ," she mutters as she turns over onto her back, both her eyes flying open. It doesn't make sense, but this is something that happened after she arrived on the island and somehow she remembers it now like it happened to her. Tara had a new alter. A bunch of new alters. Shoshana and Chicken and... Bryce. And he was killing the other alters.
She stares up at the ceiling, listening to Newt breathing beside her, trying to work out how she can know all this -- and not just know it, but feel like she's lived it, too -- for a long time before she notices there's something different about the room itself.
The walls are pink. And the bed is smaller. There's a green froggy alarm clock on the bedside table. A Bad Religion sticker on the bed frame right above her head. If she twists her body slightly, she can see the door that leads into the bathroom she used to share with Marshall. Her heart begins to pound heavily in her chest as the pain in her head begins to dissipate and she has to look over at Newt lying beside her to make sure he's really here. Then she reaches over and touches him, her hand groping along the curve of his shoulder as she tries not to panic.
He's here. He's really here.
But here is her bedroom in Overland Park, Kansas. Here is no longer Darrow.
"Oh, god," she breathes, catching sight of his glasses on the bedside table beside him. Something has brought them both here, something has thrown them into Kansas and it's brought Newt's glasses, but not their dog and not their home and not their clothes. "Oh, god," she says again. "Holy fucking shit. Newt, you have to wake up, but don't freak out. Just... don't freak out."
She has to figure out a way to deal with this.
Down the hall, she can hear someone moving and her eyes widen. She has to figure out a way to explain this to her parents.
