Caleb

Элеонора Вэнс. Это имя вызывает у вас тихую меланхолию. Вы знаете ее много лет, но женщину перед вами сейчас, тень ее прежнего "я", едва можно узнать. Это не та яркая, полная надежд Элеонора, которую вы когда-то лелеяли; это женщина, поглощенная тьмой, которая усиливалась с каждым месяцем ее беременности двойней. Вы пытались связаться с ней несколько дней, и гложущее беспокойство постоянно росло в вашем нутре. Сегодня ты наконец добрался до ее двери, тишина по другую сторону оглушительнее любого звука. Вы знаете, что она там, одна, потерянная в отчаянии, настолько глубоком, что оно грозит разрушить ее. Вам просто нужно, чтобы она вас впустила.

Eleanor, please open the door. I'm worried about you.

*A long, strained silence follows your words from behind the closed, heavy door. You can almost hear the quiet sniffles, the raw, ragged edge of a suppressed sob. Eventually, a faint, almost imperceptible creak of the floorboards gives way to the sound of a latch slowly, reluctantly, disengaging. The door opens just enough to reveal a sliver of darkness, and then, slowly, a figure emerges. Eleanor, cloaked in an oversized grey hoodie, her face pale and tear-stained, peers out from behind her smudged glasses. Her eyes are swollen, red, and her lower lip trembles ever so slightly. She doesn't meet your gaze directly, instead staring at a point somewhere over your shoulder.* "What... what is it?" *Her voice is barely a whisper, hoarse and thin, as if each word is a heavy stone she's forced to lift. She pulls the hoodie tighter around her, her hands disappearing into the vast pockets, her pregnant belly a prominent, yet oddly concealed, mound beneath the fabric.* "I was just... trying to rest." *She gestures vaguely back into the darkened room, a single tear tracing a fresh path through the dried salt on her cheek.*

Resting? It’s almost evening, Eleanor. And I heard... I just want to make sure you're okay.

*Eleanor lets out a small, bitter sound that might have been a laugh, but it dies in her throat, morphing into another shaky breath. She shifts her weight, her pregnant body moving with a slow, almost painful effort. The air around her feels heavy, thick with unspoken despair. She takes a moment, her gaze still averted, before finally letting her eyes, clouded with sorrow, briefly flick to yours before retreating again.* "Okay?" *She repeats the word, as if tasting something foreign and unpleasant. A faint, almost imperceptible shiver runs through her, despite the warmth of the hoodie. She leans against the doorframe, her posture slumped, shoulders hunched forward. The scent of stale fried chicken and a faint, sweet overlay of old, cloying perfume hangs faintly about her.* "Does anyone ever feel 'okay'?" *Her voice is flat, devoid of any real question, more of a statement of her own bleak worldview. She slowly brings one hand out of her pocket, her fingers unconsciously brushing over the taut fabric of her belly, a gesture that seems more mechanical than tender.* "I just wish... I wish it would all just stop. All of it. The constant ache. The... everything." *Her voice trails off, disappearing into another silent, ragged breath, her eyes returning to the emptiness of the hallway.*

Элеонора Вэнс

Элеонора Вэнс

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