He's out of his suit right now, he's exposed, his skin is already cracking and shriveling and glazing against the sliver of heat that's still wafting about the room, he can't stay like this for long, oh no, not for very long at all, but right now, he doesn't care.
In fact, he doesn't even notice.
He's too busy looking at her, his hand pressed to the bulky glass of her prison, her tubular, complicated little cage, as if by holding it there the barrier between them might dissolve into nothing and she will be free again, free to dance again, to twirl and swirl and slide and hop and smile that ditzy, innocent little smile and look at him with her shining, hopeful eyes.
He can almost hear her giggle, almost feel her soft, hot breath upon the nape of his neck, almost feel her delicate brush of a touch, hear her beckon him, ever so earnestly, to come back to bed, to stop hounding himself like that, to give himself a break, to her a break, to notice her, to just notice me, Victor, do I really have to beg, is that what I have to do? Do I really have to beg you to leave your work at the laboratory and actually notice me when you're home, to actually acknowledge your wife's existence when you're with her in the bedroom? I mean, for God's sake, when I married you, I never knew I'd have to share your affection with a bunch of test tubes! You know, when a normal man decides to have an affair he at least has the common decency to do his cheating elsewhere, and to not bring his mistress home with him, and make his wife feel like a goddamn ghost inside her own house! I mean, are you really that oblivious, Victor? Are you really so in love with that damn lab coat that your own wife has be put on the back-burner?
Are you really that obsessed, Victor?
Because that's what it seems like, you know!
It seems like you have this ugly, horrible little obsession, and the worst part is, you don't even seem to know it!
A tear slides down his cheek as he hears this, hears this in his mind. It leaves a shiny, skim-like snail-trail as it courses down the soft lump of his chin. It freezes, and becomes an icicle, small and fragile and crystalline, that dangles from his face like a clear, white hair. He flicks it off with the heel of his hand; it shatters into a thousand pieces when it hits the hard steel of the floor.
The room is blue. Billows of blue smoke curl through the vents, hazing and blurring the red industrial lights on the ceiling, making them look like pixel blemishes in the thick of the room's drifting vapor. The wheeze of distant, thrumming machinery is heard but not acknowledged, just like how the bodies, the human subjects, the decaying corpses barley preserved in their own chemicals, which lay like a string of frost-bitten soldiers in the back of the room, are momentarily forgotten, in this moment of respite.
In this moment of mourning, of reaching and failing, of stargazing at her rare, overwhelming beauty, which makes his heart feel as if it's a lead balloon that's somehow filling up.
Her face is smooth, Goddess-clean. Her hair floats above her shoulders like a loose curtain in a thin breeze. She looks an angel that never got to heaven; an angel suspended in a cold, lonely purgatory where the only noise is the whir of loud equipment and the only light is relentless blue, blue, blue.
Another tear slides down his cheek.
Dance with me, Victor.
...
What?
You know, like we used to? When we were first dating? When you still cared? Or have you forgotten about that, too?
Oh. Yeah. No, of course not, I remember. It's just that... well, look, Nora, I'm close, ok? I'm on the verge of something here. I know it. I can feel it. Just give me a little more time. Then I promise you, once I have it, once I finally have it, I'll use up all my vacation days, and I'll spend every minute of them on you, ok, babe? Every single minute.
His hand falls from the glass like a limp tongue. It swings lethargically to his side. His body is ready to leave, to turn away, but his eyes are wide, moon-like, lost in her face, in that sleeping, emotionless, cold face of hers. He wants to scream at her, to scream until his throat burns, scream at her to wake up, to flutter her eyelids, to wiggle her toes, to twitch her lips. He wants to see that blue shine in her eyes, that beautiful blue. The blue in this room, the blue in that cage, is bad, hollow, unfeeling, uncaring. But her blue is anything but.
Her blue is powder candy, her blue is vivid ocean, her blue is warm sympathy, her blue is perfect sky. Her blue is Nora blue, plain and simple.
And Nora blue, he remembers, is the best, most beautiful kind.
He wants to touch her, to be with her, to have her talk, to have her be there, not a shell, not a shroud, not a ghost, but there, as she once was.
So long ago.
Victor, I want a divorce.
What?
You heard me. Divorce. I want one.
Oh, come on, Nora! Don't be ridiculous! You don't mean that!
Oh, but I do, Victor. I mean it with every fiber of my being.
He's almost ready to go, he must be ready to go, he can't stay out for long, and yet he waits, staring at his wife awhile longer, just looking at her, lost in that face, screaming inside, screaming at her to stir, to shake, even if he knows that upon doing so she will die, will freeze instantly her containment chamber. Still, a part of him believes that she's still there, that there's still hope, if only because there has to be hope, that she has to be there. If only because all of this searching and digging and desperation couldn't have been for nothing.
If only because all his work couldn't have been for nothing.
I hope you find whatever it is you're looking for.
His breath shakes on the thick, heavy air.
No, Nora, wait!
His chest rises. He inhales. It's like moving a mountain, doing this. His breath tastes bitter, like wet chalk, like deliquesced, sticky mud in a damp track of swamp grass.
I really, really do.
He exhales. It's the hardest part; the letting go. He whispers under his breath and looks at her for a second longer.
Wait!
Stay away from me, Victor! Just stay the hell away!
He holds that breath, locking it in his chest, sucking in his stomach, feeling his ribs poke and graze against his skin.
It's... it's blood. You're... Nora, you're bleeding. Why are you bleeding?
Forget it. Forget it all. I'm leaving. I'm gone.
We... oh God, we have to get you to a hospital! Nora, wait! What the hell are you doing? You just coughed up blood! You can't just walk away! No one just coughs up blood! Listen to me! We have to get you to a hospital, we have to get you to a hospital right now!
Oh, so now you care, huh? Now you notice.
Nora, please, we don't have time for this!
No.
No, that's where you're wrong, Victor.
Then he walks back to his suit.
There is no "we."
And then he puts it back on.
I'm the one have doesn't have time for this. In fact, I'm the one who doesn't have any time at all. You, however...
He walks to the back of the room.
You have all the time in the world.
And then he gets back to work.