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cookiegirlTitle: Hungry Ghosts
Author:cookiegirl
Characters/Pairings: Annalise Keating
Wordcount: 227
Rating: PG for disturbing images
Major Spoilers: 3x09
Summary: Annalise doesn't sleep well these days
Notes: For the prompt "hungry ghosts" fromfhionnuisce at ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
fic_promptly
Annalise dreads going to bed.
They come to her at night: in her dreams, and in the hours when she lies wide awake, and in the hazy space in between the two. They are always there, at the edge of her consciousness, as soon as the lights go out.
Ghosts.
Sam, like he was at the end: callous and cruel, fury in his eyes and violence in his hands, spitting words that shed harsh, harsh light onto all their years together.
Rebecca, all bitterness and sharp edges, sitting at Annalise's dressing table and judging her from across the room. And sometimes gasping and begging, the life draining out of her thickly-lined eyes as she fights for air.
Sinclair, spewing venomous threats one minute, and the next lying limp on Annalise's bedroom floor, her gaze fixed on Annalise.
And Wes. Always Wes. Oftentimes as the boy he was when arrived at the university, hopeful and wide-eyed before she ruined him. And even more often, as he was underneath that sheet, his face and soul burnt and blackened by Annalise.
They visit her every night, and every morning when she rises, there is a little less of her. A little less fight, a little less certainty, a little less hope. The ghosts eat away at her, and she wonders whether the morning will come when there is nothing left.
Author:
cookiegirl Characters/Pairings: Annalise Keating
Wordcount: 227
Rating: PG for disturbing images
Major Spoilers: 3x09
Summary: Annalise doesn't sleep well these days
Notes: For the prompt "hungry ghosts" from
fhionnuisce at fic_promptly Annalise dreads going to bed.
They come to her at night: in her dreams, and in the hours when she lies wide awake, and in the hazy space in between the two. They are always there, at the edge of her consciousness, as soon as the lights go out.
Ghosts.
Sam, like he was at the end: callous and cruel, fury in his eyes and violence in his hands, spitting words that shed harsh, harsh light onto all their years together.
Rebecca, all bitterness and sharp edges, sitting at Annalise's dressing table and judging her from across the room. And sometimes gasping and begging, the life draining out of her thickly-lined eyes as she fights for air.
Sinclair, spewing venomous threats one minute, and the next lying limp on Annalise's bedroom floor, her gaze fixed on Annalise.
And Wes. Always Wes. Oftentimes as the boy he was when arrived at the university, hopeful and wide-eyed before she ruined him. And even more often, as he was underneath that sheet, his face and soul burnt and blackened by Annalise.
They visit her every night, and every morning when she rises, there is a little less of her. A little less fight, a little less certainty, a little less hope. The ghosts eat away at her, and she wonders whether the morning will come when there is nothing left.
