CLOUD: White Noise
"It's not your fault."
Those words undo him. How she can stand there with such forgiveness in her eyes? He tries to make her understand over the hiss of white noise that is blanketing his thoughts.
"I …" but it refuses to collate. I am not I. "I'm -"
A whisper of moisture across his knuckles provides a moment of clarity: ribbons of red against the pale of her skin, the green of her eyes.
What have I done?
When the nebulous haze surrounds him again, he accepts the retreat it offers.
I am not I.
His lips are moving. Are the words his own? Were they ever? He makes one last plea before he is consumed.
"If everything's a dream, don't wake me."