It wasn't that she heard voices in her head. There was enough whispering shared about her in the past five years that would suffice for the next twenty, and while she was trying to fall into unconsciousness was not the time for more. At night, the windows would have to be closed or else the wind found comfort in her curtains, and it almost sounded like people whispering to her.
But other nights, her heart would bang against her chest, and she would grip onto the cream sheets with sweaty hands afraid the ceiling would fall onto her and bury her alive with dust. Maybe study the few cracks or count how long it takes for her eyes to shadow over every single spec of paint sitting above her. Some nights, she stared at the ceiling blankly, thoughtlessly.
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