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April 30, 3014 — Hut, Honor's Keep, The Vale
In the darkness of the room, the sobs take over her petite frame. In that moment, Cyrielle does not know if she'll ever see Nitrim again. In that moment, she knows she doesn't deserve to.
The orb is still clutched tightly in her fingers. So tight she can feel the crack against the flesh of her palm. Cracked, but not broken.
She feels like the orb. Even the pain from the scratch left by the broken chain and the cuts dug into her arms does not compare to what else she feels.
It takes time to collect herself and when she does, it's to dig through her things. She has alcohol — as does the room — and hypos. She hasn't used AMP in a while, but it's such a deeply ingrained habit to keep it around, that it ended up in her things for the stay at Honor's Keep.
The hypo is held and considered. She hasn't used it since she needed it and now, her concept of what dosage is needed has changed. Cyrielle turns the small device in her hands and finally decides on her "usual" dose. She can adjust it from there.
It takes only a matter of seconds to prepare and press to the inside of her elbow. The spray is dispensed with a soft hiss into the air of the quiet, damaged room and she lets out a long sigh.
So the hours pass. Alcohol and AMP consumed in quantities more than they ought, but not so much so to cause any truly lasting harm.
Somewhere, in the pre-dawn hours, Cyrielle finds herself in the bathroom. The mirror is shattered; shards cutting into her left foot with little care. Her face is reflected back to her time and again, even in the remaining pieces on the wall over the sink.
In the mirror, she sees a shadow of herself. Sunken, red-rimmed eyes. The puffiness beneath them is at odds with the hollow nature of her cheeks. She hasn't eaten since fleeing Kieran on the beach. Even now, her stomach rolls with nausea and pain.
The scratch along her neck is angry and red; a thing that will fade in time, but right now burns as a reminder. It's a shade, a brief shadow, of something so familiar.
Hours pass and more is imbibed. She soon finds her camera and, in an attempt to reconnect with a more stable time, takes photos. Of the room. Of herself. Of nothing in particular.
The sun rises outside and sets again. Cyrielle doesn't make note of it. She doesn't touch her tablet. She ignores requests and summons from the therapists, telling them she's under the weather.
When Ephraim finally comes to find her, she's gone through about everything she's had and is slouched on the floor against the bed… clutching the cracked orb once again as the AMP drives her focus into every little edge of the no-longer smooth object.