No.

Alcohol.

No.

She noticed with faint surprise that refusing each one separately was easier than refusing the general category of escape.

Specific things could be rejected.

Abstractions became enormous.

Whiteblood?

No.

Kilcane?

No.

Vodka?

No.

There.

Three small decisions.

No heroic redemption.

No promise about tomorrow.

Just three objects left where they were.

Kimia watched the televox.

The musical guest finished.

Applause.

Commercial.

Some advertisement for a Dinnish washing machine whose manufacturer claimed a new relay system reduced power consumption by twelve percent, and also claimed that it was far more water efficient than other brands.

Kimia stared.

This was somehow soothing.

Twelve percent.

A number. A washing machine. More water efficient. 

Nothing metaphysical.

The advertisement changed.

Insurance. Then canned fish. Then the host again.

Kimia's eyes grew heavy.

Not quickly.

Naturally.

She closed them.

Opened.

Vehm still asleep. Televox still there. Room still there.

Good.

She pulled the blanket halfway over herself.

Not fully.

Too warm.

The city beyond the curtains continued being Val Salia without her supervision.

The Diet would reconvene later. The rope would still hold or not. Governments would worry. Ministers would prepare charts. Someone in Tilmuhl would wake beneath rain. Someone in Peshtul would clear snow or open a shop. Yira would fight with music. Kalgkur would read something dead and obscure because it happened. Tarkhe would find Kimia and look at her face.

All of that belonged to later.

For now, Kimia lay in an anonymous hotel bed dressed in nothing that indicated rank and watched strangers tell jokes through a televox while Vehm slept in a chair.

The demons remained. They had not been defeated. They had simply not been given the helm.

For one night, perhaps that distinction was enough. A different environment, a different stimulus helped. 

Kimia closed her eyes again.

This time they stayed closed a little longer.

Kimia spent the remainder of the night sleeping badly and refusing things.

Those became the two activities.

Sleep.

Refusal.

She slept for twenty minutes.

Woke.

Wanted whiteblood.

No.

She watched the televox.

Wanted alcohol.

No.

She slept again.

Woke because one leg had gone numb.

Wanted kilcane.

No.

At some point Vehm migrated from the chair to the bed without either of them discussing it. Kimia woke briefly to find him occupying the far side beneath one blanket, still partly clothed, mouth open, one ear folded against the pillow.

She stared at him.

Alive.

Good.

Kimia then closed her eyes.

Later she showered, wanting to get rid of any evidence of self-destruction from the day before, no matter how minor.

Kimia sat beneath it for perhaps twenty minutes.

Water struck her scalp and hair. Ran down her shoulders. Collected along her tail.

Drain.

Nothing profound.

She made an effort not to turn it into anything profound and lathered soap onto herself, rinsing off after she was done.

Then bed again after she dried off.

Televox.

Sleep.

Wake.

Refuse.

Sleep.

By the time Kimia finally remained asleep for a meaningful stretch, her body apparently decided to take revenge for oversleeping.

She woke close to six.

Everything hurt.

Not dramatically.

Everywhere.

Her shoulders. Neck. Lower back. One hip. Even the muscles in her face seemed tired.

Kimia opened her eyes and remained motionless for several seconds.

“Oh, fucccck.”

Vehm made a noise beside her.

Not language.

Kimia turned her head.

Vehm had awakened too.

His face was buried halfway in the pillow.

He opened one eye.

Closed it.

“Deazh.”

“No.”

“Feels like it.”

“You're hungover.”