Nothing but sleepless nights had plagued her since she woke up. It had only been a few days, hadn’t it? Yet it seemed at the same time so far away and so close. Time seemed to be playing tricks with her mind. One minute she would be attempting to read, and the next the nurse was coming into check her vitals - something Irene had sworn she had just done. She was frankly tired of being poked and prodded, metaphorically and sometimes physically if that nervous intern was on duty.
Her muscles were sore from lack of movement. Spells and potions had been on her side to prevent complete atrophy, but she found it hard to even wield a small piece of chalk. She’d broken so many pieces, which wasn’t a problem but she also found it hard to wield a wand to repair the damned things. And then she would get so frustrated that she would forgo trying to be délicat at all and smear the black substance all over the page to start with.
And then there was her hair.
Irene never usually gave a second thought to how effortless it was to put her hair up. She remembered she would either do it with magic or without, but either way it was effortless. But now…
Her fingers drifted up to her collarbone where her hair tickled her shoulder. They’d had to cut it all off. The dragon, the one that haunted her dreams, had burned it to a crisp and so when she arrived they’d had to even it out. It was choppy and messy and wild. The slight wave that was usually so manageable beforehand was now unruly and (at least after she woke up) frizzy. It was maddening; Irene did not like being reminded of her vanity. It felt like a black mark against her character, and insult to injury during the times when she felt insecure about how brown her skin got during the summer.
In Italy no one seemed to bat an eye, especially in the countryside where the sun was merciless at times. But in Britain she seemed incessantly bombarded by the need to be fair as a flower; an English Rose. It was her job as an artist to see the beauty in the world, but in the past few days, the only thing she saw was darkness. Even when it was daylight, and the light was pooling into her room she had trouble seeing a few feet in front of her. But she heard the knock. She only heard it a few seconds late, and by then her name was being called through the door. She looked up. “Come in.” It took her a few seconds to reply, to remember she had her voice.
Her muscles were sore from lack of movement. Spells and potions had been on her side to prevent complete atrophy, but she found it hard to even wield a small piece of chalk. She’d broken so many pieces, which wasn’t a problem but she also found it hard to wield a wand to repair the damned things. And then she would get so frustrated that she would forgo trying to be délicat at all and smear the black substance all over the page to start with.
And then there was her hair.
Irene never usually gave a second thought to how effortless it was to put her hair up. She remembered she would either do it with magic or without, but either way it was effortless. But now…
Her fingers drifted up to her collarbone where her hair tickled her shoulder. They’d had to cut it all off. The dragon, the one that haunted her dreams, had burned it to a crisp and so when she arrived they’d had to even it out. It was choppy and messy and wild. The slight wave that was usually so manageable beforehand was now unruly and (at least after she woke up) frizzy. It was maddening; Irene did not like being reminded of her vanity. It felt like a black mark against her character, and insult to injury during the times when she felt insecure about how brown her skin got during the summer.
In Italy no one seemed to bat an eye, especially in the countryside where the sun was merciless at times. But in Britain she seemed incessantly bombarded by the need to be fair as a flower; an English Rose. It was her job as an artist to see the beauty in the world, but in the past few days, the only thing she saw was darkness. Even when it was daylight, and the light was pooling into her room she had trouble seeing a few feet in front of her. But she heard the knock. She only heard it a few seconds late, and by then her name was being called through the door. She looked up. “Come in.” It took her a few seconds to reply, to remember she had her voice.
![[Image: 9EDhNw4.png]](https://i.imgur.com/9EDhNw4.png)