Yelina’s recovery was greeted at first with relieved, tearful wonder, then with astonishment and awe, but over time this turned to dismay, as the little blonde girl threw herself into the process with what could only be described as manic diligence.
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Dressed only in grey sweat halter-top and panties she would practice furiously on her massive drum kit all morning long until the house and the windows shook, then would appear in a sweating, shaking stupor, make her way to the bathroom, shower, go to her room wrapped in a towel, then reappear in tight-fitting track-suit and runners, hair held down by a sweat band, gulp down the food and drink Arley proffered, and then she was off running.
She would be gone for hours, thankfully shadowed by a pair of black 4 x 4's, who tracked her progress across field, down country lane and grid road, through thicket and copse and along the wooded bluffs, and all the while she would run and run as though pursued by demons.
She would arrive home, staggering with exhaustion, and Arley would lead her to the bathroom, help her get undressed and bathed . . .
And then for a quiet hour or two, wrapped in her bathrobe, she would sit in the livingroom with Arley, watch soaps, and take her time eating the lunch Arley laid out for her.
The two seldom spoke, but grew very close during these times, sitting together, saying very little. But always, Yelina would drift into Arley’s arms and with great heaving sighs would luxuriate in being held close and cuddled, with Boom-Boom Kitty in her lap.
And then, with a set to her jaw and a look in her eye like a young tough spoiling for a fight after being knocked down, she would return to her drum kit and unleash her fury.
You are the alien.