- silent -

I.

He's looking at me that way again.

Not the old way, the blue-flame way, eyes burning bright with confidence and desire. I know that look well, saw it daily months ago. This isn't it. Rather, it's the sad look, the lost-and-lonely look, the how-could-you-hurt-me-so look, the one that makes me far more uncomfortable than his brilliantly wicked sneer ever did. Those eyes are not flames but oceans, brimming over with tides neither of us could ever control.

I try to ignore it. I'm sitting in my usual spot in front of the fire, not reading the newspaper I hold in my hands. The headline blares in too-large font of another shooting at a school, the accompanying photograph a blurred image of pain: A teenage girl, crying as a stretcher is loaded into an ambulance. A typical evening.

My eyes keep wandering over to the image of pain in the doorway. I let my eyes unfocus, letting the flickering yellow flames and flat grey paper in front of me become a blazing smudge of color. I don't want to look at him. I don't want to have to be the balm he uses to assuage his pain.

What am I talking about? We use each other.

I don't hear footsteps, of course; he's far too refined for such mortal sounds. But he's not in the doorway anymore. He's fallen at my feet, pulling himself up to rest his head in my lap.

The viking and the...?

He bats the paper out of my hand, tossing it with a slap into the fire, and I watch the girl's face as it burns. He won't speak. He hasn't in days. He's just been looking at me, and I can almost hear his thoughts: Love me. I need you. I need it to stop.

I let out a breath, look down at him, and slowly, carefully rest the palm of my hand on top of his head, feeling the fine blonde hairs matted and grimy from not being washed. "We can't go on like this" I hear myself say.

He doesn't reply. He's fallen asleep.

II.

The sidewalk is still too bright, making me squint and hold my shaking hand over my eyes, but at least it's not truly blinding yet.

I hear another muffled pop, and the sidewalk is pelted with another rain of painful sparks. I nearly step on a cable dangling from a broken phone booth next to me as I walk.

Another loud noise, quite close this time, and I sigh and let the cracked sunglasses drop from the bridge of my nose, relishing the crunch as my booted foot crushes the flimsy plastic and wire. It's not as bright now, anyway; the sun has finally finished setting, and I have just destroyed all of the light bulbs along this route. Just to be sure.

Can't go on like this. Can't.

Won't.

III.

Three doors in one doorway: Wood covered with a thin layer of metal; glass; another of metal. Modern technology. The first two are open, and I'm leaning against the screen. Metal leaving dents in my cheek, a pattern of criss-crossed wires. I press harder and feel them dig into my skin. Cold and unyielding. Yet this pain is nothing. All I can really see is the black metal a fraction of an inch from my eyes; I would have to step back to see through the holes.

The air smells sharp, moist, and the sound of the rain wants to be an all-encompassing roar in my ears. I can hear cars streaming through rain-slicked streets miles away, people splashing through the puddles flooding the grey sidewalks. I can almost hear their thoughts, tickling at my mind, trying to get in. Soft, muted noises all around me, and the space where you should be is silent. I can't help but try to listen for you. But it never changes. You've always been silent for me. The house is empty.

"We can't go on like this," you said to me. I pretended I was sleeping. I was afraid to ask you what 'this' was.

But I know.

I step back from the screen, peer out at the gate, the yard, the street. My love. The puddles remind me of you. And it's quiet.