Her brain feels like a record being scratched. The sizzle pop of it liquifying and dying, the numbness of her eyes and the funny feeling in her teeth. She wants to lie down and sleep for an eternity. She twists the ring around her finger, rubbing her tongue against her top lip as she does so. The television is on, playing The Empire Strikes Back with the sound muted. She can recite every word be heart, every inflection of tone, but she doesn't dare tell anyone else this for the embarrassment of liking popular culture.
This is why she doesn't invite people to her apartment. The movie and music posters lining the walls, next to kitchy frames with photos of family and friends would be too much for her to deal with if they knew. If they knew that she really had a life, that she felt things that other humans feel. She'd rather be an enigma to them, the mysterious, faceless girl in the corner. She doesn't want a reputation-- doesn't want to be Notebook Girl or Stupid Girl or 80s Girl, even though she feels a sense of pride and fulfillment at the names (all but the second one, of course). She can't stand touching anyone here. She touches people only when touched. It's odd, how something she considers so normal in one world fails to translate in another.
Her head pounds, and she thinks she is dying.
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