Before we get to the fic, I'd like to thank the lovely domina tempore for helping me with the process of getting this posted- it literally wouldn't be here without her. :) *hugs her tightly*
I do not own a single smidgeon of Uncharted. (If I did, Harry might not have exploded. *sad sighing*) Just a loyal fan borrowing an amazing franchise.
Enjoy!
ovo
Here, in the middle of the night, Chloe sits up and cries.
(She never fell asleep in the first place.)
Under any other scenario, she would toss and turn, but she would be all right. Nothing was ever enough before, to keep her awake with a hollowing in her gut. This should not be a different night.
(She is a tough girl, after all.)
Death is not a concept that frightens her. She's seen the greatest and the worst beaten, shot, stabbed; seen them break every bone in their bodies… God knows she's seen too much. And even in all of this, at its core, mortality is a fact and a figure. Everyone dies. Facts shouldn't be akin to monsters in the closet.
(She is not afraid.)
But her heart is a hammer, her throat is a vise. Her hands tangle in the blankets and squeeze ever tighter. Force of habit tells her that having someone else beside her in this foreign bed would calm her nerves, but that isn't an option any more...not now. She feels— though she calls it a childish feeling— abandoned.
(She is lonely.)
Spending nights in solitary is not unbearable to her, but it is the knowledge of why she is alone that she cannot wrest away from her thoughts. Physical and mental alike, the pain is woven into her body and soul, a cross-stitch that perhaps may never unravel. Peace feels like a myth, like a battle already lost.
(She is in agony.)
The tears are bitter. She tries to fight them— scolds herself for losing composure— and cries all the more in her frustrations. The broken flow stings the wounds on her face; she is quickly reminded that she by far is not the one given the right of the most tears.
(She could not begin to comprehend Elena's pain if she tried.)
But though her body is least scathed, her mind is torn to shreds. He was an essence inside of her; hardly the man that violently dissolved at her feet, but instead the sharp-witted, sharp-tongued kindred spirit whose smile was infectious and lips were magnetic.
(She chokes back another sob.)
Every shadow of the dark thrives to haunt her, but his phantom form is the most malevolent among them all. He is the only one that closed eyes and deep sleep cannot drive away.
(She wishes he hadn't been so beautiful.)
The winter chill makes her feel naked, exposed; now it seems nothing is left to hold the crumbling remains of her existence together. Slowly, her hand drifts over the place where perhaps he would lie, if only things had changed. There is no one to take his place to make her forget the nakedness and the cold.
(She is ashamed for letting one person affect her this much.)
To save herself, automaton determination takes hold; she vows that this will be the last night that he will rob her of her sleep. He is— was, though it kills her to accept— just a man. A friend, a lover, a partner...yet still nothing but another man.
(She hates herself for devaluing him, but it has to be done.)
Teeth grit and eyes sealed, she lies down again. 'This won't change me,' she wordlessly promises to the dark and silent room. She eliminates him from her thoughts until the morning comes, at least.
She pretends she is whole again.
(She cries herself to a restless sleep.)