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Of Shadows and Sunshine


Norman Jayden wakes up wearily to another girl lying in his bed. Either the second or third this week: he can't remember and it hardly matters. Sunlight that would be streaming in through the window is blocked by blinds, but around their edges a golden glow persists.

The girl is lying with her back to him but he can tell she's asleep. He sighs and rubs his eyes, racking his brain for what day it is and where on earth he's supposed to be.

She stirs a little but does not wake. He watches her for a while, allowing himself to be mesmerised the way her body rises and falls so rhythmically, so peacefully. Her hair is the colour of hay and peaches and pools around her like a halo. She is perfect and still and lovely, maybe not all the time but faultless when asleep next to him. He cannot recall her name.

She is herself; she is them; she blends into all the women he has ever known, ever known, and in his head they all have the same face. All angels, all sleeping beauties with no place in his life but murmuring quiet reassurances to him in the dark.

He lays a hand on her shoulder and rubs gentle circles into her flesh, relishing the way her soft, creamy skin moulds under his fingertips. He could so easily be with a girl just like this, like any of them, and he knows it. The quaint house and the picket fence and the family dog could all be his.

But it's impossible. He withdraws his hand, because something about it all feels so intrinsically wrong. Maybe one day, when things are better… but no. That isn't true, and he is no longer consoled by those naive fairytales. He deals with shadows and lies and cold, hard rain; he knows nothing of sunshine.

And not only shadows but also tiny blue bottles and dark, dark glasses because then everything is bright, glorious and beautiful; and the pain goes away and just a little bit can't hurt, just a little will make everything right with the rain pouring down, always down endlessly… But those thoughts will only start him shaking and sweating, he knows, and slowly reaching for the vial lying innocently on the bedside table, so he suppresses them before they can begin.

When she awakes, he smiles and thank god she has work in an hour and is already late so thank you for this but she really must run. He hates it when they hang around like spare parts.

"I'll call you," he says, like always.

Like always, he never does.

His apartment returns to normal when she is gone, as though it can slowly exhale after holding its breath all night. Reminders lay scattered about - the dishevelled bed sheets, a wineglass smudged with lipstick - but now she is a little more than a comforting dream.

Now he can return to reality and its cold, hard sting.