Sleep, O Feral One

The rabid city is sleeping. She had a rough night. Her entire body is aching and pulsing, with clumps of stale blood wanting to explode from the veins where they cling. Her head is spinning with images of alternating dark and light, each repetition leaving a painful afterimage in her mind.

New Year Syndrome-- that's her psychiatrist's diagnosis. He said some more details but she doesn't understand any of it. She doesn't really care. All she wants is a year of peaceful, dreamless sleep-- something she hasn't done for a while now.