Disclaimer: Without Prejudice. The recognisable characters herein are the property of Warner Brothers, Michael Crichton and Amblin Entertainment, all of whom have more money and power than I ever will. I don't own them and I never will. Please don't sue, all I own worth having is probably my toaster, and even the ownership of that is in some doubt. Honestly, I don't own the house I live in, the car I drive or even the laptop I write this on.
Life In Stasis
She should have known.
Black is darkness, it is grief and mourning and smoke from the remains of a roadside bomb. It is night time, all enveloping and consuming, it is wet tarmac and dried blood and headlights turning lives upside down.
Black is not a lucky colour for her.
The dress hangs – formless and useless and covered by protective plastic sheeting - in front of her. It is taunting her, lying limp against the dark wood of the wardrobe. She resists the urge to reach out and straighten a stray fold in the fabric.
The fabric would be soft and cool beneath her fingers, but it would burn. The flames of guilt, sadness, helplessness and utter shame would consume her. She'd be happy never to see or touch the damn thing ever again.
It's a beautiful dress. It cost a near fortune.
But right now the thought of it against her makes her skin crawl, sends a shiver unbidden up her spine. She settles on the end of her bed, casting a glance around the bedroom. It's empty tonight, and it's lonely, and it always will be.
It'll never be home, not again.
The dull throbbing behind her temples won't fade, no matter how insistently fingertips massage slow circles. It's in time to her own heartbeat – slow, deep thuds. Counting out her life, deliberate and methodical.
It's tearing her apart.
Her head drops into her hands, cheeks wet with tears she wasn't sure she had any more of. Her head aches and her heart aches and there's a huge, immoveable weight crushing her chest, pinning her to the spot. She doesn't know if she can bear this. She isn't sure if she has the strength to keep breathing.
She almost isn't sure she wants to.
A sigh escapes, and there's a long, still moment when she contemplates how easy it would be not to inhale again. But she does. She forces the air back into her lungs, painful as it is. Oxygen brings clarity. Clarity brings pain.
Her head swims.
There are a million questions about tonight. She stares at the palms of her hands, damp and lined, and wishes for the answers. She hopes and she prays and she appeals to every higher power she's never believed in. She wishes for a happy ending.
For him to wake up.
To be given a chance to fix this. Somewhere, out there, in the inky velvet Chicago night, he's hanging, in limbo, life in stasis. Somewhere between living and dying. She hopes he has the strength to choose living. He's fighting for his life, for their chance.
She knows she can't live without him.
She can't sleep knowing she might wake up to a world without him in it. She's exhausted. Euphoria and adrenaline have left her veins, leaving her feeling as if feeble strings are holding her up, boneless and useless. All she has left is the vaguest edges of a hangover and blisters the size of a small country. She can't close her eyes – she's afraid of the nightmares, of the darkness that lies there.
Black isn't a lucky colour for her.
She should have known.