Tomorrow
An add-on to White Lies
By Glistening Sun
Cold. She is feeling cold and empty. Her mind functioning, her body functioning, only her voice betraying something that is hidden so deeply inside of her she can't connect to it.
Empty. Her heart is empty, devoid of emotions, a black void.
A hand on her shoulder, familiar fingers squeezing her through the material of her jacket that feels like protective layer against the warmth they're usually offering. A look so sad and yet so understanding. She is hurting him. A part of her knows that but she is suspended in this state of cold and emptiness. She cannot rouse herself from detachment. She sees his eyebrows lift, the hopeful expression on his face only too quickly replaced by one of forced cheer hiding the pain.
"Sharon."
She shakes her head, surprised at the movement and lifts her hand in a pleading gesture. Not now.
Cold and empty, all she wants is to be alone and be numb, not feel anything. She took a life and it's left her lifeless. She scrubs the day off her face, brushes her hair out and pulls it together into a loose braid.
"Sharon," Andy says when she comes back into the bedroom, his voice raw with pain. She can see how badly he wants to reach out to her and touch her, how hard he's trying to control his desire to pull her into his arms and hold her close, but she only shakes her head.
She bids him goodnight and feigning tiredness turns onto her side, her back to him. She can't fall asleep and Andy doesn't seem to fare any better. She can tell he is in pain, physical pain as he turns and fights hard to muffle his groans. It must be his neck bothering him again. It has been for a few days. She wants to say something, words of comfort, offer him a massage, but her own despair is too great, the void too black, her body too cold.
"Sharon," he whispers again and she stiffens. Not now. She can't talk. So she just shakes her head and hears Andy's resigned sigh. Anger wells up in her at the noises he makes. Why does he sound as though his heart is breaking, the pain raw and real? She knows she is hurting him, but her own hurt it too great to reach out. Only inches separate them yet they appear like an ocean.
She thinks she hears him once or twice more during the night, she remembers shrugging off his hand when he places it on her shoulder chastising herself immediately. Why can't she give him this? Why can't she give them this? Tomorrow, she promises herself, tomorrow when she's rested she'll take the comfort he is offering. Tomorrow she'll let him hold her, tomorrow she'll let him warm her up.
Tomorrow comes quickly and she wakes up still feeling cold. It's a profound cold that has only spread further during the night. But she knows that Andy is there, maybe still asleep, but he won't mind her waking him. She'll turn over into his arms, she'll warm up in his embrace, her face buried into his neck.
"Andy?" she asks quietly, but doesn't get a response.
She tries again, louder this time: "Andy?" He's a light sleeper and he has yet to sleep through her voice. She can tell from the matress that he is still in bed with her. It's quiet. Eerily quiet. She doesn't even hear him breathe.
"Andy!" she shouts now and turns around.
Brown eyes meet hers, still and unmoving.
"Andy!" her voice breaks in panic.
His skin is cold to her touch, his body still.
Her tomorrow is gone.