|Four walls coming down on me, well, come on down again
||[Jun. 11th, 2006|02:44 am]
Would You Like a Rust Sandwich?
There's a certain point at which the mind decides 'this can't get any worse' and simply shuts off. Effective torturors know when to stop for precisely this reason.|
When the Eileen thing had told her being alone here would be 'bo-ring,' what she had meant was that it would be worse. And it's only now, after close to two weeks alone, that Liz is figuring this out.
Of course, only Walter for company is worse still, but even his presence would be a sign that this particular layer of reality hasn't just been left to decay, to warp and rust and curl at the edges until it crumbles away into the blackness.
Sleep is not an option now, though the physical fact of sheer exhaustion has crept up around her like fast-growing kudzu. In sleep there is oblivion, and that is somehow more frightening than any of this.
There is a letter on the kitchen island, addressed to Henry, John and Warren.
'Everything is going to be all right,' it says.