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Chapter Ten

This is all hopeless. What's the point? I avoided sleep. What does that really amount to, though? Nothing that could ever actually be useful. Why am I even trying? What am I trying to achieve? It's all pointless. There is no such thing as the happy ending the books Mother used to read to me talked about. Not for anyone. There is no ending - it just goes on and on and on. Is it even over when we die? Maybe if it was, this wouldn't be so bad. Knowing that all this will end.

My head aches, my mouth dry. I need to relieve myself, but I'm not sure I have the energy to stand. Every time I move, I'm overcome by dizziness. I just lie there, in my mattress on the floor, willing myself to move. To stand. When I finally do, I almost fall over, and have to sit down immediately after. My head spins, and I groan. I just want it all to be over. Crawling, I manage to reach the toilet, and pull myself, painstakingly, up onto the seat. Hunched over, I almost cry. I would, I think, if I had any tears.

Finally, I gather my energy, and pull myself up. I stand there, swaying for a moment. I need to steady myself, but my hands are heavy, oh so heavy, and I can't lift them. I stumble a step, and, faster than I can register, everything disappears.

The side of my head aches - my hip, too. I've banged my knee. I sit up slowly, hesitantly. I fainted. I fainted. I can't believe - but then, why not? It seems so... petty. But why not? It's not exactly the worst thing that's happened to me. Not by a long shot. The weirdest, either. Hesitantly, I stand, gripping the doorframe. When nothing happens, I make my way back to the mattress, sinking gratefully into it. Pulling my skirt up, I examine my knee. It's split, and I can't touch it without sending shocks of pain up my leg. But it's not bleeding, and, as far as I can tell, it's not infected. 

I shudder. How long have I been unconscious? I want to look, to check. But I'm scared to. What will I see? It's odd - I still feel young. My mind is still young. My body has aged, but inside, the part that matters, is still the same. I wonder if I'll go mad - I've heard that happens. Or forget. I don't think I will - my mind still seems the same as before. And who knows - maybe I'm already mad. It doesn't really matter - not anymore. Maybe I should just give up. Sleep when I feel like it. Let myself age, since I can't seem to keep myself awake.

As I stand, I wince, looking down at my swollen feet. That's new. The veins stand out, and I wince again, just at the ugliness of it. As I reach the mirror, stare, trying to guess my age. Fifty? Sixty? There's grey in my hair - enough that it's the colour that stands out the most. I turn away, sickened, but no longer surprised. Looking won't help me. Nothing will. 

The door opens, and I back away, in fear it might be Heracles. But instead it's a maid - pretty and young, the way they all are. She holds tray, and I crane my neck, but still can't see what's on it. My neck clicks, and I frown. That wouldn't have happened  before. She puts the tray down, and I see a cup of water and a bowl of porridge. I nod to her, waiting for her to leave, but she just stands there, hesitant. Finally, she blurts out,

"Is it true? What they say?"

"That depends on what they say." My voice comes out in a croak. She nods distractedly, and turns to leave.

"If you need anything else, knock on the door."

"Thank you." She rushes out, presumably to gossip about me. I don't care - there's no way it'll affect me. 

The porridge is decent, though it needs more sugar. I think of asking, but pity prevents me. I remember what it was like - waiting on someone like that. Seeing to their every need, and being unappreciated for it. I don't want to add to that work load. It's odd - I had never compared myself to them, but other than by birth, we're similar. We even have Heracles in common. I suppose the person I was before all of this happened was - selfish. Conceited, vain. I never considered what it was like for other people.