[Giorno went to sleep. A few hours later, he woke up very abruptly as a result of not being able to breathe. His body was fighting, frantic, spasming against a nonexistent blockage in his throat. His lungs wouldn't inflate. It felt, he will think later, much what drowning must feel like — although he's never drowned, of course. Not yet.]
[Waking was a slower process, which felt more like sleep paralysis than anything else. He doesn't know how long he was staring at the ceiling in unmoving terror before he became able to move a single finger joint at a time. All he can say for certain is that once he gained a sizeable amount of control over his body, the physical, adrenal aspects of panic set in, which must have triggered the — the bat thing.]
[That's why he needed help. He couldn't stop panicking on his own. Not like that, not feeling as trapped in his room and that tiny body as he did in his slowly resurrecting corpse. The longer he was alone, the more he felt his mind fraying.]
[It's with naked relief that he watches Trish block off the rest of the room and everything else with her body. He gives her a weak, watery smile.]
Thanks. I'm . . . sorry. To ask something so ridiculous of you.
[His hands are freezing. He rubs them together, and then thinks: my all of me is freezing. His teeth are chattering for a few seconds before he realizes, in part from his odd new body temperature but mostly from shock. He reaches fumbling hands up to the bed to pull a blanket down in a haphazard tumble, which he then wraps tightly around his shoulders.]
Do you want a — a pillow, or something? You must be tired, I woke you up—
[He's panicking again and doesn't even realize it. Doing a moderate job of concealing it, but it's all from a place of fear. He doesn't like showing this weakness, and even after everything, the fear that she'll get sick of it and leave is so, so strong. If he can just make things a little less unpleasant, surely that will help.]
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[Giorno went to sleep. A few hours later, he woke up very abruptly as a result of not being able to breathe. His body was fighting, frantic, spasming against a nonexistent blockage in his throat. His lungs wouldn't inflate. It felt, he will think later, much what drowning must feel like — although he's never drowned, of course. Not yet.]
[Waking was a slower process, which felt more like sleep paralysis than anything else. He doesn't know how long he was staring at the ceiling in unmoving terror before he became able to move a single finger joint at a time. All he can say for certain is that once he gained a sizeable amount of control over his body, the physical, adrenal aspects of panic set in, which must have triggered the — the bat thing.]
[That's why he needed help. He couldn't stop panicking on his own. Not like that, not feeling as trapped in his room and that tiny body as he did in his slowly resurrecting corpse. The longer he was alone, the more he felt his mind fraying.]
[It's with naked relief that he watches Trish block off the rest of the room and everything else with her body. He gives her a weak, watery smile.]
Thanks. I'm . . . sorry. To ask something so ridiculous of you.
[His hands are freezing. He rubs them together, and then thinks: my all of me is freezing. His teeth are chattering for a few seconds before he realizes, in part from his odd new body temperature but mostly from shock. He reaches fumbling hands up to the bed to pull a blanket down in a haphazard tumble, which he then wraps tightly around his shoulders.]
Do you want a — a pillow, or something? You must be tired, I woke you up—
[He's panicking again and doesn't even realize it. Doing a moderate job of concealing it, but it's all from a place of fear. He doesn't like showing this weakness, and even after everything, the fear that she'll get sick of it and leave is so, so strong. If he can just make things a little less unpleasant, surely that will help.]