Sleep, Supernova

Content Warning: sexual assault and violence implied.

Soft light creeps in through the narrow slits of the softly waving blinds, dancing off the fresh, cream walls and baptising the youthfully familial scene in warmth, a love tinted lens. A new mother, hands still shaky, eyes still flighty, gently pushes and pulls the wooden crib that rocks her infant daughter. She finds herself subconsciously whispering words and sounds that exist at the midpoint between song and coo, brain disconnecting as instinct begins to take over (though she doesn’t trust it one bit). Her primary emotion, of course, is love. Love that doesn’t originate from the giddy beat of the heart, or the cavernous pit of the stomach (as the love she had known always did), but instead from deep within her bones. Starting as a soft hum, it silently enveloped her body in a cloak as natural as skin - how had she lived without it? Her secondary emotion was rather less picturesque, exhaustion. Her head lulled as the mismatched and out of tune lullaby she had been softly crooning began to work its superstitious charm upon her. Indeed, she hadn’t slept in any meaningful way since the birth of Yvaine, her child. Her hunger for rest has become utterly insatiable, she craved it, eyes rolling back at the thought of heavy limbs curled up in slumber. But Yvaine was something else. She was light itself forced into a pale yellow baby grower, always moving and twisting and seeing. At last though, bright blue eyes disappeared behind feathery lids, miniature lips lolling open in the deep breath of sleep. The mother lent over - lips touching the wispy surface of her baby’s head. Shh, my darling. Don’t wake up. 

That restless (unbearable) energy that Yvaine had brimmed with from the second her tiny - yet full bodied - cry had first cut through the damp night air did not dissipate as she aged into sticky childhood. Remarkably fast growing, she out-paced everyone, limbs stretching and body moving with pace that others couldn’t fathom. Yet it never it never seemed enough for her, no frame, however quick and slender, could move as fast, jump as high, yell as loud as her character commanded. She was in race with herself - screaming with unadulterated childlike joy as she watched herself fly through the motions of life. Stillness was rarely an option. Take this moment, early hours of a Sunday morning, Yvaine shoving her not-yet-fine-tuned little ball of a fist out into the rapid rush of air and tracing the pattern of stars ahead. Her wide eyes watered and sour bile rose as she watched the stock landscape of the Scottish countryside blend into one broccoli-green blur. The throbbing in her neck (from craning her face into the fresh air) had managed to sync with the throbbing in her arm (from winding and winding the window down, against mother’s wishes), yet she relished the moment. Her imagination ran, suddenly she was not in a stuffy, and altogether too bumpy, car - but flying, arms outstretched above the bustle of the world below. Freedom was fleeing as (with great dismay) she realised the open wild fields and forests were slowly morphing into the concrete bowels of a place mind-numbingly familiar. Her imaginary universe splintered and shattered. So, she let herself slump against the buzzing glass, cheek resting uncomfortably on textured plastic, hair covering a still open eye. For all her moving, running and buzzing, Yvaine treasured the tender touch and loving watch that only fell on her in moments of rare silence. She pictured curling in as she is carried up the stairs, the feeling of a soft kiss against her forehead. She closed her eyes, and stilled her body as best she could - breathing in long pronounced movements. Don’t wake up. 

 In time, as stars do, Yvaine found herself burnt out. Body finally catching her mind, pushing too far too soon. Her adolescence robbed of the tenderness and ripeness of possibility she had longed for as a child. She found it stale, a resolute entity unmoving and oppressive. Her movements became more considered, as they lost the childlike buzz of charged electricity, before becoming minimal, then empty. She no longer raced through time, but felt the thin whips of time racing through her - sucking her out from within. Light coming and going day after day, highlighting and hiding the stoic lump of sheets she had become. She heard confused whispers, sad musings, as if she were some girl gone missing or dead. Some girl, unrecognisable or thieving. Not what they signed up for. As she spent life cycles alone breathing and rebreathing the same sweat filled air - she feared she had burnt all the fuse she would ever have. Childlike hysteria robbing her of adult sanity. Every night she whispered a secret mantra into the damp figure in her pillow. Don’t wake up.  

She did, eventually, emerge (a newborn once more) from her cocoon, to the ecstatic delight (relief) and praise (gratitude) of her family - and occasional friend. Her metamorphosis, however, was all wrong. Where she should have felt the stabilising power of paper-thin, yet iron-strong, wings - she only felt herself curl and close within herself, a caterpillar inching its way to safety. She had done it all backwards, she realised. What kind of idiot peaks at eight? Yet still, she let herself be led through the initiation of young adulthood. She felt the sweat slicked figures of strangers push themselves against her, the bile-like flavour of mandatory poison forcing its way down her throat. She felt everything, yet nothing at all. There was nothing keeping her, not until he joined her, anyway. Not until that friendly clink of glass morphed into a pat on the back, squeeze of the hand. Exchange of names (that means star, doesn’t it?), leading to the exchange of smiles, exchange of laughs. She tried to ignore the small spark of the seemingly defunct fuse light within, ignore the tell-tale shine of skin that had been sallow for so long. It can’t be real, she thought. It must be a dream, whatever she did - she knew. Don’t wake up. 

She fell into the routine. Stopped being so dragged, started leading the charge. She felt bursts of electricity in her nerves, endings snapping themselves into shape. Her body became numb to the constraints of heaving masses, learnt to like the sour taste of liquid friendship. She spun in circles, remembering the freedom of a mind more expansive than the body. Some say she had earned her name, but she tried not to listen. She tried to put it aside, at first. So, of course, she ignored the first night it happened - the way her knees weakened, the way her body suddenly felt lucid, ephemeral and floating as a cloud. She blinked away the exhaustion, swallowed down the fear. But it was tidal, cutting deeper and deeper each time - until she found herself sprawled out on the grass, empty. She saw him walk towards her, she as she twisted and strained to push something, anything out of her. She watched as he leant over. She felt his hot breath, body not so numb anymore. She closes her eyes as he whispers in her ear.  Don’t wake up. 

At first she burns with anger. Energy restored to her, corrosive as it is creative. She blinds with her light and her power - but the eyes betray her. Not her own, but those of others. She sees small sparks of hope flicker, where there was only emptiness. She catches her mother, a smile lingering on her face as she gazes over. The sticky web of hope entraps her, in her reluctance to burn it all down. He can be soft. Warm around the edges. He has a quality of care, where she is rapid. He picks up her keys when they fall to the floor. He holds out the door when she lags behind. It’s not that bad, being his. It must have been worse, being alone. Her childhood car ride tactics serve her well, in the end, when the door cracks, leaking in the harshness of night, she lets her eyes flutter down, muscles relaxing. She times the deep and soft breaths to the creak of his footsteps up the stairs. He opens the door - slurring her name. Don’t wake up. 

Time is not something worth tracking for Yvaine. Not until Bridget, anyway. Not until the fierce power, blazing love. Not until then. She crouches, by the bed of her young child - a child that is quiet where Yvaine roars, mouth empty but eyes full. She reads stories of dragons and mermaids and kingdoms and aliens. She holds the small body, full of the hum of hope and life, softly leaving kisses against her flushed skin and lays her down, whispering promises and lullabies and loves and praise. She rejoices in muted silence as she sees daylight leave the curled body of the young girl. She presses her lips to the wispy surface of her head as she hears him stir below. Don’t wake up. 

Even in the lucidness of her sleep, her dreams, she sees him, feels her stomach flip - twisting and turning beyond control - as the ground underneath pounds. Human flesh distorting,  turning animalistic, as he bounds on all fours towards her. She grips sheets and bares teeth. Still, she is protecting. She is serving. She will make it. Don’t wake up. 

She wakes. It’s unclear what does it, the smash ricocheting through the brick behind, or the childlike scream. But she moves. Body rushing and charging  Legs pushing and pulling before her brain knows what to do with them. Energy restored, fuse lit. She yells. Grabs. Tears. He falls. Thumping. Curling. She stands over him, blazing and burning. Warmth and heat and power at last. It tastes sweet. His eyes are wide and bulging as she shoves the lily white, silk, pillow down on his face. She imagines all the fears and mantras and incantations whispered into the softness spilling out into him. Burning him from the inside out. Her knuckles grip - camouflaged into the softness underneath. He pulls and pulls and pulls, until he doesn’t. Eyes rolling back, hand dropping down. When it is done, she leans - matted hair forming a curtain around his disfigured, screaming face - whispering. Don’t wake up.