[ Bedelia is still visibly shaking as she listlessly wanders through the streets, in what was gruffly pointed out to her to be the direction of the address the tags gave her. She can hardly hear herself think through the artillery her nerves were firing at her brain. She is still replaying in her mind what the voice told her. Trying to process that she was not kidnapped, but that this was some sort of inexplicable scientific phenomenon and that she was not in any immediate danger. Part of her was still nursing the delusion that once she got herself to fall asleep wherever she was going here, she would wake up in her own bed, make herself tea, and phone a prescription for the most effective sleeping pills she was privy to obtain.
Mostly, there was no logic in her mind, only a stubborn determination to focus on breathing, and not start hyperventilating. Because God be damned if she was going to allow PTSD to flare up in a possibly literal nightmare like this, and after all the work she'd been doing to manage her behavior. (Mostly which was less healing and more avoidance of people and the world outside of her apartment). But she'd been doing better at home, allowing people besides Hannibal into her house, even flirting with the idea of picking her practice up again...
Hannibal. But no, no God she was aware of would ever be kind enough to allow her to run into, quite probably the only person she found both trustworthy and reliable (albeit impulsive and well, she didn't want to go there).
Finding it increasingly challenging to fight back desperation, tears, and the strong impulse to run into a cafe and sit in the corner hugging her knees - if only because her prideful dignity was still, thankfully, greater than her emotional trauma - Bedelia stopped by what appeared to be a bus stop, to screw her head back together.
Except it was only dusk in the big city - wherever this city was - and there were still plenty of people around. Staring at her, she noticed. Muttering things. Pulling the coats up tighter to avoid her gaze. Was it really that cold? She hadn't noticed.
Gazing down at her arms it was apparent why. Baffled less that she had been too distracted and overwhelmed up til this point to notice, and more that her arms were a crystallized white-ish blue, she jumped backward slightly, letting out an in-elicited shout of shock. ]
Bedelia du Maurier | Hannibal (NBC) [2]
Mostly, there was no logic in her mind, only a stubborn determination to focus on breathing, and not start hyperventilating. Because God be damned if she was going to allow PTSD to flare up in a possibly literal nightmare like this, and after all the work she'd been doing to manage her behavior. (Mostly which was less healing and more avoidance of people and the world outside of her apartment). But she'd been doing better at home, allowing people besides Hannibal into her house, even flirting with the idea of picking her practice up again...
Hannibal. But no, no God she was aware of would ever be kind enough to allow her to run into, quite probably the only person she found both trustworthy and reliable (albeit impulsive and well, she didn't want to go there).
Finding it increasingly challenging to fight back desperation, tears, and the strong impulse to run into a cafe and sit in the corner hugging her knees - if only because her prideful dignity was still, thankfully, greater than her emotional trauma - Bedelia stopped by what appeared to be a bus stop, to screw her head back together.
Except it was only dusk in the big city - wherever this city was - and there were still plenty of people around. Staring at her, she noticed. Muttering things. Pulling the coats up tighter to avoid her gaze. Was it really that cold? She hadn't noticed.
Gazing down at her arms it was apparent why. Baffled less that she had been too distracted and overwhelmed up til this point to notice, and more that her arms were a crystallized white-ish blue, she jumped backward slightly, letting out an in-elicited shout of shock. ]
W-what is going on?