"Ha-ha-hah, hug me tight in the night!" a soft voice near his ear sang. Night serenades, unknown voices – both good and evil – games of his fucked up mind as a result of an endless drug poisoning. Rawr-rawr-rawr, that sounds like something else, something like a starting car, probably. A gavel knock. And again. Thunder, bolt, sounds of a rain, light screeching somewhere far away. Begging for enfolding once again. "Ha-ha-hah, hug me tight in the night!"
It can be some bullshit, or his heart started singing in its old age once he got himself a woman, and now it bothers his sleep. She's a beautiful woman, but it's almost morning. You want to get better? Look asquint and see how calm she's breathing. That would and will be right – look, admire, embrace. Annalise, so soft, so tranquil, close, silently sleeping in pitch-black darkness like a baby. He could watch her like a burglar is watching jewels under infra-red rays he has no access to, and cry over not having it – but it's the other way round here, and jewels are his.
How well does it happen, hah? Who would've thought? Have someone to enfold, someone to cuddle to, who can shelter you at 3:43, when sounds in your head wake up again and illusive birds sing. Memories, dark, swallowing, black like resin, or liquid in pastel colours, like caramel, but far more bitter. In moments like this you really want, you're sad and the whole world balls itself in something black and evil and scratches you like a mad cat. O-o-o-oh, these scratches hurt like hell, they let your blood and the only antidote is heroin that drags you into the bigger darkness, larger obscurity, and there's only reason why – you didn't have someone to enfold in the night.
- Annalise? – What a beautiful name. It's pleasant enough to pronounce, but when you know it belongs to you it becomes perfect. When you're a kid, you're brawling with your friends – if you've got some ordinary toy car, it's not worth a farthing, but if it's a Ferrari, Rolls-Royce or Lamborgini, everyone starts to respect you. Same here. Annali-i-i-i-i-ise. How good it is to call her name as often as you wish, as it's so beautiful.
She must be awake too. She's got a complicated case, so endless reflections and possible defense lines are troubling her mind – her job is her life, he'd better leave her for now. She wouldn't answer or could even be rude… or would ask for help that he can't give her. His voice trembles with a treason, bringing everything out lock, stock and barrel. But she's silent. She must be sleeping.
You could try to fall asleep as well. Turn off the bedsite light, lean closer to her and just close your eyes. No sounds of wings of singing birds, no thunder, no screeching light. It's 3:43. A smell of a clean human. A fragrant shower gel – with lemon, probably. Serenity. A silent sigh. Yeah, that's good, let all the black, intrusive and sharp like a razor thoughts go away. You can set your hand forth to hers or on her stomach, so as not to hold her too tight and not to wake her up. Why do that when you can just press your forehead against her spine?
Stuck like a baby to his mother. It's so warm around her and it smells nicely. Squeezing. Warmth. Home. Peace.
3:44.