Eleanor looked at the rain through her misty window, her nose damp with condensation as she pressed her face up against the double-glazed glass. As the grey fog of suburban apathy lay over the land like an eldritch presence, she wondered whether she should smile that it would end, or cry because it felt like it could never end. This place will never let me leave, she said in a mixture of acceptance and bargaining. Time thunders on, ever closer to a destination that may eventually come, but could not come soon enough. Donning her blindfold, she opened her door and stepped outside, feeling the soft rain on her fur and the smell of petrichor blended with her ennui, like a shining darkness.
As purple prose about her imperfect life swam in her head, she turned her head to the sky and made a sound between a laugh and a cry. Soon, she told herself. But the day stretched further and further ahead like an endlessly growing tunnel, her vertigo all black and terrifying as she stood on the edge of forever, with her own voice betraying her as she told a passer-by she was okay, and abyssmally notified them of the change of date, responding artificially with every question. How long would this go on for?
