[ P ] tore me apart like a hurricane

this cup of yours tastes holy
you hold your truth so purely
but a brush with the devil can clear your mind

set immediately following this thread

Ginevra sleeps soundly—until she doesn't. The alcohol she'd consumed earlier had made quick work of dragging her into a deep, heavy sleep, and hours later, her demons have finally caught up to her. It starts innocently enough with just the slight twitching of her toes and eyelids as images flash across her mind in racing snippets of red, the violent sequence of memories far more nefarious than the slight symptoms of dreaming shown on her features. But the longer it goes on, the more distressed Ginevra becomes, trapped in the hold of reliving what had happened to her.

Her muscles twitch and shudder, and little whimpers catch in her throat, cutting into the silence in the room and likely alerting Matteo to her growing distress. It doesn't matter, though; Ginevra has been dragged too far down into her traumatic episode to be easily roused from it, even if he does try. Silent tears are streaking down her cheeks and onto the pillow and sheets as her whining grows in volume until it breaks into incoherent babbling and panicked pleading for them to stop. They never did.

A particularly brutal scene in the nightmare devolves Ginevra's begging into a bloodcurdling shriek that's enough to snap her awake, though not without a severe amount of confusion. Her face is burrowed into warm fur, which is as soaked as her cheeks, and she's sobbing hard enough that she struggles and gasps for every breath. The intense reminder of the last image that had flooded her senses—her sister—has Ginevra hiccupping and shoving her forepaws hard against Matteo's chest, twisting away from him just in time to throw her head over the far edge of the bed and heave the meager contents of her stomach onto the floor.

code // art