(no subject)

The room is dim. River knows this, because her eyes have fluttered open.

There's a soft surface beneath her, and hard metal on her wrists, and the room is dim.

And there are walls.

River knows better than to wake up; River knows better than to think she's awake. Because she's had these dreams, the single bulb and the shadowed walls and the metallic aftertaste of too much sedative (and the shadows move, see them writhe) and the aloneness. She knows this, and it's not real, it's never real any more. Simon made the nightmares go away.

Simon's not here.

"Simon?" River whispers, thick-tongued, and

the shadows writhe, the bulb swings, and
stutter
the floor zig-zags with sterile blood

she's awake.

She hears: What do you see, River?

She's awake.

(and beyond the walls the soft incessant laughter)

She's on a bed, in a prison cell, and there are handcuffs on her wrists and her ankles. The air is sterilized and recycled. And the room is dim.

And Simon's not here.

"Oh God," River whimpers, and then she throws up.