Goodnight

She wakes up all at once, a violence that shocks her system as she breaks the cold surface of consciousness. Her body aches, her vision swims, her chest stutters as she tries to suck in as much oxygen as possible. Panic tries to override her, but she forces herself to go still. Breathe, she repeats in her head like a mantra, breathe. Her heart rate eventually slows, evens out into a steady rhythm instead of a franticly beating bird. She pulls in one large breath, holds it in her lungs until she feels a familiar burn, and then releases.

The sky is dark above her, errant stars peaking through the clouds obscuring the bruised twilight. Outside, I'm outside. But where? The question circles her mind like water draining down a sink. It gets sucked through the drain before an answer is presented to her. 

She makes an effort to sit, her hands sliding against the slick dew coating the grass beneath her. Her throat is rough, raw, burning with an acuteness she can't place the cause of. She touches the column of her neck, fingers catching at the rough lace of a jabot. She looks down at herself, assessing the crushed velvet dress, the abundance of ruching, and ribbons, and frivolous excess. She doesn't remember donning the garment, is sure she doesn't own anything of this ilk, but there is no point in dwelling on the oddity.

Her fingers brush a cool, delicate chain, which she follows until she reaches a key sitting at its end. She looks at it for a moment, before her head moves, eyes searching for the lock this key could belong to. The House she spots in the distance -the only thing she can see breaking up the miles, and miles, of endless hills- offers itself up as a likely candidate.

She gets her legs beneath herself, watery limbs threatening to spill her back onto the ground. Somehow they hold, sore but steady as she heads towards the manor. The air is cold and still against her cheeks as she walks, a gentle nip. She ignores the minor discomfort as she closes the distance between herself and the house. 

The closer she gets, the more her trepidation mounts. Her stomach starts to churn, the sea inside her breaking into waves that crest and crash. Her chest tightens, constricting in a way that threatens to cut her air off once more. Choke her. There is a shift in the atmosphere, a darkening, a weight that sits heavy in the air like the swell of moisture before rain. She can feel it pushing against her, pressing hard on her shoulders, her head. It's a miracle her feet aren't sinking into the dirt with the added pressure. 

She can't tell if this is a warning, if this is meant to make her stop, reconsider, or a false alarm intent on fooling her into stillness. Her pace slows, decreases to a leisurely crawl as she considers her options: remain outside in this liminal nothingness, or try her luck with the house. Neither seems appealing, but only one option presents potential. Sure, she could explore outside, but somehow she doubts she would come across anything else regardless of how long she walks. The idea is unsettling, eerie. A more disturbing thought flits through her mind; what if she did go, chose to explore the outdoors, only to find herself let back here, back to the House? Goosebumps prick her arms, a shiver works through her at the concept. No, the more she debates, the more it is made clear that the manor is her only real choice.

The front door looms large before her, already cracked open in invitation. She looks up the House, eyes trailing until they reach the topmost point. A circular window sits in what must be the attic of the manor. It's glass is filthy, smudged so thoroughly that she can't really make out anything beyond. The shadows beyond seem to shift, move ever so slightly, but she can't be sure. It doesn't stop her heart rate kicking up. 

She refocuses on the door, the open invitation, beckoning her inside. She steals herself, hand closing around he heft of the key around her neck, before she enters.

Welcome home.