Quit Hitting Yourself

by Technicolor

four

Lyra spent a lot more time sleeping. Whenever she could, and longer, too. Wake up? Shower. Go back to bed. Wake up again, stare at the office door, go back to bed. It felt like every moment awake was a gamble, because she never knew when the other her would lean in and say something awful. Something she took because she felt like she was supposed to, but even when she did it made her feel weak and drained and pathetic.

A week had passed. Her head dipped down into the cushion, and she woke up blearily, blinking at the light. The world came into focus—and Bon Bon was sitting there, smiling down at her.

She smiled back and scooted up, hugging one of the sofa cushions and laying her head on her lap. The TV was on. Apparently, even that hadn’t woken her up.

“Feeling any better, sweetie?” Bon Bon asked, petting her hair gently.

“Yeah,” she said. She meant it, but she still sounded choked, because she could hear herself leaning over the back of the sofa, too.

“You’re worrying her,” she whispered. She always whispered when Bon Bon was around, for some reason. But that only made it worse. “She cares about you. And this is how you’re paying it back?”

Bon Bon kissed her forehead, and Lyra had to stuff back tears.