Her eyes are heavy now, heavy with the dusk of sleep and the immeasurable senses of nightfall. And of great pain. She's always associated great pain with night-time, although she is not sure why. Perhaps it's because, during the night, it feels as if a million wasps were stinging her heart and hurting and...and...
She can no longer find the words because the music is rising loud and it's late and she's very tired and it hurts to fight and to scream and to try to stop herself from crying. So she succumbs to the wasp-like pain in her heart and falls down to the floor and writhes in the absolute pain of mot knowing what to do.
Or how to do it.
She realizes, to her amazement, that she's never been quite in this point of life before. She's never known exactly what to do, because it was the first time doing it and nobody warned her about the pain that would come. She didn't think it would be quite so great and she doesn't know if she can survive.
It sure feels like she can't.
Swarms of wasps buzzing around her face, around her swollen head. Swollen, of course, from the inside, because it's not the sting of the wasps that has destroyed her, but her own thoughts. She sees herself helpless before the little insects, coming forever closer, until in one swift move, they will all sink their little needles into her eyes.
And it dawns on her that they have been moving forever closer her whole life, and that she never could really escape.
