She stands there reeling in the spectrum of emotions running through her. A good, strong dose of Shock and grief for one Camille O'Connell. She suddenly feels extremely dizzy, as if her knees are going to give out any minute. The dead, slowly decomposing bodies in the dark, grim tunnel stare at her.
She yells as he claps a hand on her mouth, and drags her away.
A brave bartender.
A silly little human.
And an immortal half and half.
A man with heart that has withered away.
Nobody sees them.
Bats, of course, are blind.
.
She forgets about them, a slight remembrance of green and blue eyes. Eyes that she she's lost in. Eyes that hideaway every secret of the world. The eyes of the man she equally loves and hates.
Of course, those eyes are no longer there and she can't remember why she's here, or why she has a sudden urge to go home and act as if everything is okay. Fine.
Oh-kay. Fi-yin.
The words sound bitter on her tongue.
.
And then, they're back and she wonders how it was possible to forget them. And she hates the man who's made her forget them. Irony buries itself deeper and deeper into her life every day.
And she hates he self for missing him so much.
And she hates him for making her forget about him.
And then he's gone.
And there's a part of her, deep inside her, that keeps searching for a stranger she can't remember to have ever met.
.
"Love, madness, hope, infinite joy." He tells her, as they sit in silence.
The four qualities of human nature.
She thinks Infinite joy sounds most miserable to her.
Maybe it's because of the way he said it.
Maybe not.
She can't know, of course, because she's beginning to lose her mind.
.
She wakes up, covered in sweat, and tears stream down her cheeks. She doesn't know why she's crying, or why she's dreaming of something or someone she can't begin to fathom.
She stands underneath the shower, the old water pouring down every curve.
She doesn't feel anything for some strange reason.
As if her senses have disappeared along with some, most likely non-existent memory she keeps searching for.
She can't know for sure, of course, because she's losing her mind.
.
He shows her who he is. Every cut and scar. He strips down every memory, breaks down every wall, reveals every single secret, every moment of loneliness, of unhappiness, of torture and presents it to her.
She looks into him, into his soul, which surprisingly he does have.
She sees the universe, the joy and the pain, the burdens of loss and anger of a thousand years on his shoulders, and his alone. She feels his pain, what he's been through, and she feels the pain of every time he has lashed out on someone for something that was not his fault. She feels the pain of every single person he's tortured, killed, ruined and she steps back.
Her senses have returned.
The numbness however, is waiting for her as soon as she closes the door.
.
She wakes up at night, sleep unwelcome. The clock ticks as tears drop.
What makes her angry is the fact that she can't seem to find the one thing she feels empty without.
The ticks of the clock remind her of clacking typewriter keys. As if she's recently used one.
She's used to these kinds of things now.
Tears in the fabric of the reality of her mind.
It's alright, of course, because she doesn't know anything anymore.
.
Camille sits on a bench, the weather hinting at rainfall soon. He comes and sits beside her. She doesn't say a word. His hand clasps hers, and they sit there, as the mist slowly starts to settle in. They don't smile. They sit there, wordlessly staring at the actual lovers who hold hands and rush off, laughing and kissing.
Camille wonders if, in their own way they have a lo-
She's heard of far better love stories than the one she's taking part in.
They sit there, even when the rain starts.
Emptiness and quietness, of course, cannot feel.
.
She finds a rose in her bag, and doesn't bother wondering how it got there.
A faint clacking sound of typewriter keys in the back ground accompanies her thoughts.
She doesn't mind.
She keeps the flower close, as if it's something tying her to whatever she cannot seem to be complete without.
.
For the first time in months, she sees her brother.
She's elegantly dressed in her dream. A long, black dress made of a shining silk material, accompanied by a golden necklace.
She doesn't smile.
On the other side of the room, dressed in an extravagant white gown, is her as well. She beams, accepting compliments from people, accompanied by a silver necklace. It's surreal, looking at herself in her dream, happy, fulfilled.
She realizes she's quite happy in the darkness. Her brother comes to stand by her side, as on the other side, the white-dresses woman who is her in a way, turns to look at them. She smiles at them, as if she doesn't know them.
Camille ignores it. So does her brother.
He tells her she has to get out. Out of the darkness.
And step into the light.
She can't, of course, because living there so long, she's become it now.
.
He doesn't say anything the next time she comes over, just paces around.
She doesn't bother making conversation either.
Fragile skin on unbreakable one, humanly supple lips on thousand year ones.
And there is nothing in any book that would differentiate between love, feelings and sex. And what was there to say?
Only that there was a snuffling at the base of a lovely throat. Only that they held each other close, long after it was over. Only that what they shared last night was not happiness but hideous grief and a little love thrown in.
Only that emptiness and quietness fitted together like stacked spoons.
.
Again, sleep avoids her. This time, this one time, he's beside her.
And she almost feels peaceful again.
She places her hand in his, and she can almost hear him, thinking of taking his hand away.
She ignores him.
And in return, he doesn't move his hand.
Sleep however doesn't return, of course, because they don't know anything anymore.
.
She finishes his memoirs, after months and months. Leaves it on the desk.
It sits there innocently; hiding within it the darkest secrets of someone most would consider a monster.
She considers him an artist.
.
She wonders if she still loves him. One look into his eyes, and she knows the answer. She also knows that she's constructing her own demise. Being the architect of her own destruction.
She craves it, however. Her own demise, her destruction.
She doesn't know it's the last time she'll ever look into his eyes.
He tells her he's leaving. He tells her to take care of herself.
And he tells her that he's sorry.
.
And then, it's all gone. He's gone, and his memory is gone, and all she came remember are greenish-blue hues.
The small moments of affection.
The smiles, the talks, the end.
.
Somewhere in the distance, she can hear the familiar clacking of typewriter keys.
A/N: Big fan of this ship, and I don't have an idea where this came from. Leave a review, because I feel encouraged and write better when I get some sort of feedback. Thanks!
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