With great power comes... great... great... what was that phrase again?

[mistresswanda.livejournal.com]

Tuesday, March 2nd.
The Dormouse, Evening

Tomorrow, I will speak to Romana tomorrow about taking on full time work this Thursday. I am not well. Not at all. Everyday is worse. Everyday I hurt more. Every day I lose more sleep, everyday I eat more but look more drawn. I am not sure that I will...

no. Nevermind that. All will be fine. The baby and I will be fine.

God, I sound like Lúgh!

Swipe at the tears that are always there and force myself to keep moving, to make dinner and eat. I am so sick of eating! Take a prime rib out of the fridge to pan sear, and try to listen for Derek again as I force myself to keep upright in front of the stove. I try, I try so hard, but I can't focus on anything beyond the low murmur of everyone, the imp's heartbeat, and the sizzle of the meat in the pan.

Cursing, I turn off the stove after only a few moments, and slide the steak onto a plate. I don't even bother with a side dish, or utensils. Just sit down at the island and pick it up with my hands, bite off a hunk. It's red and cool and juicy, and for a few moments, it's enough.

As I sit and contemplate trying to sleep, my eye falls on the list. I don't think I need anything else at this point, it will----

"Oh FUCK I'm stupid!" I yell to myself, and for once, I startle the imp. Take up my pencil, and add to the list: Derek Granger. He's missing. Find him for me please? He was helping me out around the house.

There. Don't know if it will work, but it doesn't hurt to try. After all, I am not sure how much longer...

Dammit Wanda! Stop that!

The imp moves again, and I know what she wants. "Fine, fine, we'll try it..." I sigh, and write on the bottom of the paper: Your daughter wants you.

With a sigh, I drop my plate in the sink, and start to haul myself upstairs. The child moves, and God I must be tired, for I swear she is chiding me for not writing; Your wife and daughter wants you. Clearly losing my mind, for I cannot be having a conversation in my head with my unborn child, can I?

Obviously losing my mind. Doesn't stop me from laughing aloud and saying: "That may be so, but it might work better the way I wrote it, little one."

I need sleep.

Closed

With great power comes... great... great... what was that phrase again?

[mistresswanda.livejournal.com]

Tuesday, March 2nd.
The Dormouse, Evening

Tomorrow, I will speak to Romana tomorrow about taking on full time work this Thursday. I am not well. Not at all. Everyday is worse. Everyday I hurt more. Every day I lose more sleep, everyday I eat more but look more drawn. I am not sure that I will...

no. Nevermind that. All will be fine. The baby and I will be fine.

God, I sound like Lúgh!

Swipe at the tears that are always there and force myself to keep moving, to make dinner and eat. I am so sick of eating! Take a prime rib out of the fridge to pan sear, and try to listen for Derek again as I force myself to keep upright in front of the stove. I try, I try so hard, but I can't focus on anything beyond the low murmur of everyone, the imp's heartbeat, and the sizzle of the meat in the pan.

Cursing, I turn off the stove after only a few moments, and slide the steak onto a plate. I don't even bother with a side dish, or utensils. Just sit down at the island and pick it up with my hands, bite off a hunk. It's red and cool and juicy, and for a few moments, it's enough.

As I sit and contemplate trying to sleep, my eye falls on the list. I don't think I need anything else at this point, it will----

"Oh FUCK I'm stupid!" I yell to myself, and for once, I startle the imp. Take up my pencil, and add to the list: Derek Granger. He's missing. Find him for me please? He was helping me out around the house.

There. Don't know if it will work, but it doesn't hurt to try. After all, I am not sure how much longer...

Dammit Wanda! Stop that!

The imp moves again, and I know what she wants. "Fine, fine, we'll try it..." I sigh, and write on the bottom of the paper: Your daughter wants you.

With a sigh, I drop my plate in the sink, and start to haul myself upstairs. The child moves, and God I must be tired, for I swear she is chiding me for not writing; Your wife and daughter wants you. Clearly losing my mind, for I cannot be having a conversation in my head with my unborn child, can I?

Obviously losing my mind. Doesn't stop me from laughing aloud and saying: "That may be so, but it might work better the way I wrote it, little one."

I need sleep.

Closed