Quiet Contemplation
Wind gusted across the roof as Logan sat in contemplation. He shut his eyes against the contrary winds that blew behind the lenses of his glasses. He swallowed. Swallowing hurt. Everything hurt, now. Breathing, feeling air on his skin. All he felt was like a bruise had lain across his skin and settled in to stay.
Three days. Was it really three days? Maybe four. Time blended. He didn't really pay attention. Three days seemed so much safer than four, seemed a way of huddling up against a tidal wave, so close you don't have to stop and contemplate its immensity. Three days that she'd been gone.
Three days of hell.
Three days of wondering. Three days of trying to live when he knew she wasn't.
A trembling smile turned the corners of his mouth. So close. There and gone. Washed away like a willow-the-wisp without a glance backwards.
Logan tried. Tried to ignore the horrible memory of blood, the horrible closeness of death. All that he concentrated on now was all the beauty that could be wrought from the memory. The cool feel of the skin of her neck when he raised her head; the feel of the strands of hair falling through his fingers.
Then Lydecker, then pain.
Wind gusted across the roof as Logan sat in contemplation. He shut his eyes against the contrary winds that blew behind the lenses of his glasses. He swallowed. Swallowing hurt. Everything hurt, now. Breathing, feeling air on his skin. All he felt was like a bruise had lain across his skin and settled in to stay.
Three days. Was it really three days? Maybe four. Time blended. He didn't really pay attention. Three days seemed so much safer than four, seemed a way of huddling up against a tidal wave, so close you don't have to stop and contemplate its immensity. Three days that she'd been gone.
Three days of hell.
Three days of wondering. Three days of trying to live when he knew she wasn't.
A trembling smile turned the corners of his mouth. So close. There and gone. Washed away like a willow-the-wisp without a glance backwards.
Logan tried. Tried to ignore the horrible memory of blood, the horrible closeness of death. All that he concentrated on now was all the beauty that could be wrought from the memory. The cool feel of the skin of her neck when he raised her head; the feel of the strands of hair falling through his fingers.
Then Lydecker, then pain.