"and if the sun shone, I'd rather not see it at all"

The room was pitch dark. Solid black. She opened her eyes and closed them again and realized there was no difference. She heard muffled voices, muttering downstairs. Sound travelled through the house like an epidemic. She couldn't quite make out the words to be anything other than unintelligible phrases. She somehow felt she was being talked about. Since Adelaide couldn't familiarize herself with the sight of the room, she inhaled the scent of it. So very peculiar. It smelled like her room. The scent, the atmosphere, the texture of the covers on top of her. This was her room. She was so very confused. How did I get here? her mind reeled with questions. Her doorknob twisted and rattled on the door, someone was coming in. She closed her eyes and threw the covers over her head like a child. If I can't see them, they can't see me.
Low, quiet voices conversed back and forth. She recognized one as her mother. Another as her father. What is he doing here? Her mother pulled the covers back, revealing Adelaide's face, observing her for a minute and tucking them under her chin. "She seems to be doing better. As soon as she wakes, we'll  be able to find out some things, hopefully" her mother whispered. Her father and mother softly stepped out of Adelaide's room and closed the door gently.
Hopefully, hopefully, hopefully. the word echoed in her mind like the sound of a gunshot in an open field. Empty, like her mind. So it seemed for the time being, anyway. Hopefully she'll be sane by then. Hopefully they'd understand. Hopefully she'd see the lion again and know it wasn't a dream.
Hopefully is just a word uttered to ensure hope. Especially when there is truly none to be found.
Adelaide sighed. She was tired although from what she had heard, she'd slept a rather lot. Mentally tired. She rose from her bed and went to her chalkboard. She had begged and begged for months for her mother to install blackboard in her walls. Now these walls had become a cornucopia of unexpressed knowledge, rough sketches, thoughts, words of her music and mind.
Upon one in particular she reserved for her friends. Deirdre, of course, had tainted her walls with her brilliance. Deirdre was the artist. Adelaide the writer.
Always the opposites. It worked, though, and neither complained.

Adelaide's room was a mess. As always, She lived by the phrase "In creativity, neatness doesn't count" as far as her housekeeping went. Her room was her sacred laboratory for words and sentences with pages sprawled everywhere. The pages her beakers and test tubes, the words her chemicals. Acids and solids and all manner of chaos. But somehow made it together on a page to make sense.
Very little made sense to Adelaide. In her mind, the world was this gigantic mass of unexplored ready to be discovered. She missed it.
She missed exploring her world. She'd been gone for so long, she couldn't remember when the last time she developed a simple photograph was. Or wrote a poetic phrase. It was rather pathetic

She loved her room. The different pieces on the wall. Everything piled together defined her esscence. A mess.

I am quite the mess. A mass of contradictions. perfectionistic. Imperfect. It made no sense. All the same. She didn't know how to be different in that respect. So she just did as she knew. She looked at her clock. 12:45 am

Back to bed.