Twice in one day...I must really like you guys! So this is the second installement of before you, i was but an empty dream. Hope you guys like!


"I still get nightmares. In fact, I get them so often I should be used to them by now. I'm not. No one ever really gets used to nightmares." -Mark Z. Danielewski


The first time an I love you escaped from his lips, the words spilling, threatening, to overflow like a lid kept on too tight, was a time, a bridge, that he had thought (and begged) that they would never cross – his heart was beating faster than the ticking, ever whispering sound of the watch settled on his right wrist. His hands, long since having gone numb, were covered in the deadliest of colors; blood was spread to his hands, his heart, covering him in a way that no one should ever possibly know. It wasn't just the knowledge that blood was slinking through his palms; no, it was the face that it was her blood, blood that he was trying, desperately, to stop bleeding from the gaping wound in her stomach.

Her hand lies still as she stares up at him, expression rather blank. "Funny," she whispers, the sound of her voice echoing in his ears with a sudden clap of thunder. "Second time is always – "she pauses at this moment, her eyes flickering. " – always worse."

His teeth clenched. "Shut up," he hisses. "Shut up, Skye, save your breath."
Beats were counting in his mind. One, two, three – the response team would be here any moment now, coming to take her to the nearest hospital. She only had to survive a few more seconds –

A harsh breath left her lungs, and he physically felt when they contract underneath his hands. He swallows. "C'mon Skye, stay with me," he pleads, but her eyes were already flickering closed as if struggling to stay open.

Around them, the rain was pouring down with such harshness he wouldn't have believed it had he not been there; the water was seeping into his thin, white shirt, the only piece of clothing on his upper torso. His jacket, having long been discarded, was now mixed in with the blood coming from her side, with him using it as a blocking barrier. Her hair was spread among the pavement, giving the illusion of almost being asleep – but she wasn't only slipping into sleep. Around them, there was a crowd of curious townspeople, all looking sympathetic. One had a cell phone out, as if to call the police.

Her eyes fluttered one last time, before quite suddenly, her breath left her lungs in a whoosh, his fingers touching her ribs.

"NO!" he yells, hands flying to her cheeks. "Damnit Skye, you can't die, you can't – please," he yelps, voice choking. "I love you."

The words are lost to the wind.

The medical team arrived the, in a blur of lights and sirens. It was all a whirl of blood and memories after that; he remembers refusing to let her slip from his hands before then a sharp pain in his neck, before nothing.

He wakes in a gasp, heart pounding wildly and sweating buckets – his feet automatically swing over the side of his small bunk and his head falls loosely to his hands, candling them in a comforting movement; but it isn't enough. He's blinking, breaths coming in heaving gasps, a choked sob rising in his throat.

Just a dream, he fights the lingering silver screen of sleep. It was just a nightmare.

Quite suddenly he feels a smooth hand against his bare back; he can't see her, but her fingers slide quickly up to his cheek, turning it to face her. Her cheeks are rather red against the darkness of the room, but he can't see her feature's clearly – she's not dressed in much more than he is with a small tank top and denim shorts (with him only in boxers) but he can't bring himself to fully realize that she's there. That she's not dead.

Her eyes are chasing away sleep quicker than he did, her conscious coming to awareness. "Alright?" she whispers, lingering traces of clumsiness showing.

He turns fully to face her this time, pulling one foot up onto the bed so it rests near her hip. He leans down then, pressing the lightest of kisses to her collarbone before moving upward, ending with a simple, yet gentle kiss on the lips. "I'm fine," he promises back, soothing her worries (but not his) and he sees the worry dissipate in her eyes.

"Kay," she mutters one last time, the clutches of sleep only calling her. He watches, quietly, as her head rolls sideways and her nose lays inches from the small window.

Then he lies down beside her, hand catching her waist and pulling her flush against him. The sheets were cool against his legs and it was welcome to his sweaty palms. There's no more noise from her and he forces himself to close his eyes, ignoring the flashes of the nightmare.

A dream, he swears to himself as darkness overcomes him. Just a stupid dream.


Fun fact: I originally had Skye die in this little piece, but then decided that was way too depressing and went with this instead. Her funeral was sweet, but it, quite honestly, made me cry while I was writing it.