The sound of a truck tearing right through the road, and the brief scan of headlights through the shutters, sliding across the wall and her face. She shivered, drew her knees closer to her chest. It wasn't cold in the room, but she felt cold. As if she was made of ice⦠Her consciousness came and went along the road. She experienced small snippets, each one marked distinctively by the amount of natural light present, and the general feel of her surroundings. Every once in a while, her brain reminded her that the position she was in was particularly hard on a given set of blood vessels, so she shifted, changed position, and tried to hold onto her consciousness.
She failed. Every time.
Because every time she opened her eyes, it would be there. Despair. Pure and unfiltered, untainted by any thoughts of hope his presence would bring, could bring.
She was afraid. Afraid of failure, afraid of loneliness, afraid of reality. And what scared her the most was the fact that she might not wake up. That she would stay there and nobody would find her, that she would not see him again, that the numbness would finally get her. And with that final thought, her world went black.
When she came back, she only saw the no-dream. Black, limitless, featureless dark of the in-between consciousness. Her body was aware that she was lying on something soft, with a coat draped over her body to protect her from the cold. A pillow and two duffel bags at the footrest making her bed larger. Her bare feet, open to the cold. The folds of the coat, soft in her grip. The belt around her waist and the jeans on her lower body. She was aware of them , but she couldn't see them.
And yet, no consciousness. No way to understand it, to turn this surge of input into something malleable. So she just laid there, letting the world assault her senses while keeping her mind away from the surface. The surface of the no-dream, like the sea, atop which was her breathing space.
But she was too busy drowning, too busy sinking. No time to swim. No strength to float.
She woke up in the dead of night, like she had before. She panicked. The more she laid there, the more conscious she became, and the more she panicked. She sat there, knees to her chest, shivering.
Panic, abject, abstract. There was nothing wrong, yet she couldn't stop herself. Somewhere inside her, the knowledge she had gained stirred inside, slithered closer.
She could scream.
Cupped both hands on her mouth to keep herself from it. She could fall apart all by herself, her world would collapse. She remembered something about him, but her mind was too clouded to discern whether that was actually the truth or some piece of abstracted echo-dream trying to be the truth.
She looked outside. Darkness. She got up. The carpet, rough and textured under her bare feet. Welcomed the sensation and moved to the bathroom. There, in the mirror, she saw a tired mess. Hair in tangled, separate strands, dark circles around her eyes, make-up from God knew how long ago clinging to her skin... pale, sickly skin. She threw her fist back and smashed the mirror. Shattered pieces fell around her as she looked at her arm. With a sigh, she cradled it to her chest and moved to sit down on the bed.
She laid there, in the dark, and didn't move. In her silence, she heard the ambient noise of the world around her. The hum of the mini-fridge. The crickets buzzing by the road. That slight noise, reverberating on the lowest points of the hearing threshold, the noise of the road. Asphalt, gravel, tires and tired hours. She thought she heard his breath, felt his chest expand and contract, and actually listened to her own breathing, to the sound of her echoes, her constant companions adding their tune to it.
Pulse in her ears. Her sigh, echoing.
With that in thought, she closed her eyes and tried dreaming of him. Tried dreaming of him holding her tight in his arms, of him laughing with her, of him helping her.
After all, nobody can understand him better than her. For it was her man to keep with her..
