Was he inside or outside?
On the one hand, he could feel the wind. The rain hit his bare skin and created an odd prickling sensation that was both enjoyable and made him want to scratch like he did when he had chicken pox.
Then again, who was to say that someone hadn't left the window open?
If he blew the smoke out, did it fly back at his face or did it float out into nothing—what he thought to be nothing—only to fly along until it dissipated entirely? He blew the smoke out in a steady stream, watching it as it appeared to hang in the air for a moment before floating gracefully by him.
Perhaps he was dead.
He took a moment to pinch his arm. The yellow-stained fingertips slipped along wet skin before he finally used his fingernails to get a good grip. A wince.
Then maybe he was just dreaming.
Taking a shuddering breath, full of rain and smoke, he pulled his knees up to his chest.
Maybe none of this was real.
As if to confirm that he was, in fact, in reality he reached out, fingers splaying against the glass. Water plinked off the glass, droplets rolled down the window and pooled in the sill. He considered the water for a moment, cigarette dangling almost carelessly between his lips.
Did touching something mean reality?
He bit down on the end of the cigarette, tasted the ash and a number of unpleasant flavours besides, and spit the whole thing out. It smoldered, then died. Back to the window. Raising a shaking hand, he rapped once, twice, three times upon the glass.
Was he here, or there?
A fourth, final, rap on the window. He inhaled, tasting salt water mixed with the factory smoke, carried over by the wind. Briefly, he allowed himself to fall back to reality to assess his situation. Whether he was here or there was not really the issue. It was whether he wanted to be in either location, what awaited for him, if anything did.
Taking another deep breath, he rested his head on his knees. He could feel something beneath him, sharp, cutting if he chose to lay back.
Was he in hell?
He turned his head to the side and looked out over the land, seeing the odd forms before him. They were in shadow, hidden by the clouds and the smoke.
Or was he?
Yes, he supposed he was in hell. After all, where else but hell would he be so lost? Had he, in fact, been on earth or, even worse, in purgatory, there would have been more answers. Much more than the crippling uncertainty that filled him from head to toe and kept him awake at night.
He didn't exist.
That was a plausible explanation. There. Here. Wherever. It could all be a dream of a child, of a cat, of some strange and fantastic creature that did nothing except dream up universes for lost souls such as himself.
He could feel newspaper in his hand.
The ink had smeared onto his palms, ran down his arms. Was it moving even as he sat there, inside or out, here or there, heaven or hell? Did the ink move differently?
He was in himself.
Although he wished he wasn't.
The illusions, it seemed, were much more satisfactory than the reality. At least when he questioned, he wasn't sitting alone, shirtless, in the rain. At least then, he wasn't alone on a rooftop in Liverpool.
At least then he didn't
Aren't I a terrible person? I once ended a fic like this, but it was bad, and while this one probably isn't very good I figured that such an ending fit. Just so you're all aware: I own nothing. This was written as a sort-of-but-not-really tribute to my Theory of Knowledge class, which often leaves me very confused.
Finally, I like to think this takes place when Jude (it's obvious it's Jude, right?) has heard about the explosion, but he doesn't know if Lucy is alive or not. Thus the angst and questioning.