Chapter Two
A Different Kind of Pillow Talk
They scream in their sleep—him from the fear of never waking up, and her from the fear of waking to a new day.
Harry eyelids flutter through his deep slumber, beads of sweat adorning his forehead as his mind is tossed back and forth between the realms of reality. The coincidental dreams had begun to haunt him over the months, and he found himself letting them take over his life.
The constant fear for her life leaves him cold and breathless; he can't imagine how terrifying it must be in her situation, to have death's icy fingers brush against the back of your neck.
He cries more than she does, and it's a foreign feeling because he's supposed to be stoic—she's not strong in any sense of the word. She's as weak as a person can be without medical death. But she'll attest the fact that while she's legally alive, she hasn't lived in years. Each breath feels forced and stolen because it probably is.
She realizes the situation is driving him insane, and it seems that he harbors more hope for her survival than she does herself. She begs for him to let her go, and it's like a morning ritual. She wakes him up telling him today's the day they must part; it's time to say goodbye. But it never really is.
Their relationship is like their numerous shared addictions, something they both benefit temporarily from, and once they break away from this world they've created for themselves they'll be lost in the sea of society. They cling to each other more for means of survival than for actual adoration.
But sometimes she slips into bed beside him and shushes him, just resting her head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat—then sometimes they fall in love. It's never for more than a moment, and it's only been mentioned once. She slapped him, cried, and ran away to take a shower. When she returned, they ignored the feelings and just lay together.
"I don't want your last memory of me to be my face gaunt, gasping for air, deteriorating, not remembering who I am. It'll be too hard for both of us, and in the end it will only hurt you more to see me dying," she argues, pressing her small palm against his calloused one.
"If you think that's going to happen, you've already lost your mind," he muses with morbid sarcasm, and though they both know the innocent nature of his jokes, his humor isn't nearly as funny anymore.
She doesn't answer him, but simply rests her case and refuses to carry the debate further. They talk of it too often nowadays, and it feels like by the time they agree on the right time to say goodbye she'll be long gone anyway.
Before Harry realizes, he's sucked into her green eyes again, sending him into a trance. It's almost as if he can smell the sweet scent of drugs in the air; they've both agreed to stop but continue to sneak a joint or two behind the other's back. A strange sense of nostalgia pangs his heart as her eyes suck him in further, but he's not sure why.
And when he blinks, she's gone.
