Author's Notes: It's summer. So I'm doing alot of writing. I'm doing this fic for sure, then I'm actually taking over one of Kat's fics called Picking Up the Pieces.. Which should be interesting,a nd she's taking over one of mine, Replacing the Past. I'm going to do alot of stand alones, and maybe a few series.. Who knows what will happen, but this one I am defintely going to finish, I just have to be in the mood when writing it cause it is very very very difficult to write!!!
Days slowly dragged on until eternity. Every second felt like an hour. The heat was unbearable, turning the grassy plains into desserts. The animals barely walked, dehydrated and unmotivated. The women and children stayed in the shade, made only cooler by a few degrees. He spent the majority of the time in the scalding furnace. His face, back, shoulders, and arms were scourged from the vicious sun. His once white skin was now a mixture of dark browns and fiery reds. His feet barely wanted to make the walk home. The sun had begun to descend on its daily journey, yet the temperature had not decreased. The sand under his feet sizzled with every step. The crickets chirped hidden in the weeds. The only sound that of vultures searching for their prey. He continued. Every labored step drained him of all his energy. His shoes felt too heavy on his feet. His clothes: an unnecessary burden that weighed him down by tons. He could see the horizon starting to spin around him. His footing was rash and uncontrolled.
He wanted to make it home, to that shack in the middle of the plains, and lie down. He didn't want to move. The mass of sick and dying patients, young and old, big and small, strong and weak. All became too much to bear. He envied her for being here. She had somehow managed to live through it all. He saw the building in the distance, the sun almost officially departed. He wandered slowly, the sweat pouring down his temples and cheeks, soaking his shirt and body. He reached up the streams that threaten to block his vision. The salt ran over the wounds, burning and corroding him. He was now not a novice to pain. He learned to deal. There was no other way. He made it to the first steps, sitting down upon the parched wood. It was burning through his shorts, but any rest for his aching muscles. The pain transcended from his head toward his neck and back, all the way to his calves. Movement was impossible. He lay down on the steps. The unfinished wood digging slivers into his skin. He could feel the nails from the boards penetrating into his side. He didn't care.
He heard the patter of footsteps above him. The sound of light bare feet upon wood. A sound that is so common to homes in every country, to every people. The slow progression of growth. Her breathing was heavy. The humidity made the air thicker. She was almost wheezing, trying to take in oxygen, but only being able to fill one fourth of her lungs. Yet she didn't falter, she stood straight and looked out into the horizon. She reminded him of a statue, a graceful, elegant statue that stood through the best and worst conditions, only to come out stronger in the end. Time and tortures only made her more worthy of the honors, the imperfections making her more valuable.
He felt her hands slip carefully in front of him, handing him a cup of water. He took the life-preserving liquid, slowly sipping it, as if it would disappear and never return. He needed it. His body craved it. The water he lost would never be replaced from his body, he took all he could get. It ran down his throat like water putting out a fighting fire. He felt the flutter of her skirt against his arm as she walked past him, sitting down a few steps away from him. Her hair fluttered in the almost non existent breeze. Her shirt hung on her body. She was so tiny. Her hands were barely twigs, the muscles and bones protruding through her skin. Her eyes were bloodshot, her skin pale as the white on her blouse.
She stood up, refusing to let her mind lose the battle with her body. Her steps were slow and precise. Her walk was different, stepping on her toes, as if testing the ground for imperfections. He never paid much attention to her walk. He never thought he needed to. He never noticed the way she always pulled her arms in front of her chest, creating a barrier. She was secluded, by choice. He placed the cup on the stairs. He would take it in on his way back. His feet groaned as he stood, but he walked after her. She walked slow, oblivious to the outside world. He saw storm clouds in the distance. Any rain would be nice.
He walked in step with her, every movement of hers he mimicked until he was behind her. He could see her hands shaking. Her eyes were closed as she stood in the midst of the wind. He stood watching her, feeling all her emotions. They raged through him: pain, frustration, anger, hurt, jealousy. Yet there was most prevalent: peace. She was at peace. He couldn't understand why. She was a complex, unknown, indiscernible person with so many layers built upon herself he could never get through all of them to understand who she was. He took a step closer to her.
His hand reflexively reached and rested on her hip. She jumped slightly, until she turned and stared at him as if he was a stranger, an unknown creature who dared to disrupt her beauty. He was infecting her with a disease through his touch, and the longer he kept his hand upon her skin, the more of the poison was absorbed. She didn't flinch, barely moved. He felt nothing under his hand except for her moist skin and bone. There was no muscle, no protection, simply the hard cartilage every body had. She was a living, breathing, walking skeleton and nothing more.
Her body shifted, he looked into her eyes. He could see her screaming out for something. He didn't know what she wanted. He only did what he knew he should have done every night. He pulled her into his arms. Her head rested on the same spot on his chest, his hands wrapped around the same place they always did. It was a reflex, a magnet pulling his hands upon the resting point. He watched her, her eyes were closed, her breathing fast and forced. He saw a sliver of a tear peek out from under her eyelids. He pulled her closer to him, the tears he had longed to see he was finally seeing. The warm drop fell upon his skin. It physically burned him. He could see the scar forming. The red slash a reminder of their pain. His hands ran up and down her back, yet the only thing he could feel was her spine, sticking out and stabbing him with every run up or down. She was as fragile as a porcelain doll, a figure made entirely out of glass.
He locked her gaze, her brown eyes pulling him deeper and deeper into the relentless quicksand. He could see his past, present, and future in her. He could feel all the pain coming back into his heart. The nights he spent wondering if he would ever be happy, if life would be kind to him. He wished for an angel. Some guiding light to help him. He never once thought of her. He forgot her best he could. She was a stain upon his once perfect life. And suddenly she just became the world and everything in it.
His head moved closer to hers, their eyes interlocked, never letting go. He could almost feel it, the electricity, the magic, the spark. It was always there, as good as the first time, only getting better with time. He felt his lips meet hers. His lips were moist against her dry, wind-beaten and chapped ones. There was little movement. The world stood still around them. Suddenly everything she felt inside was transferred to him. His heart was pounding and he was left gasping for air. His body ached with the added burden. His hands were shaking, his mind going numb. He broke away. He was almost repealed by her, not being able to take it all in at once.
He could feel her staring at him. The same questions were running through his mind. What fate brought us here? Why were we destined to hurt each other? The powers that control the world are never just, a simple fact every human learns. He held onto her with all the strength he had, yet it would never be enough. She closed her eyes. Her body began the struggle away from him. He held on physically now, his hands wrapped around her waist. She always ran. There was no changing that. He hoped to hold her there, have her tell him the truth.
"Abby . . . Please . . . "
She stopped. She held onto his arms, searching for the air that was not coming into her body. He helped her stand, searching for anything to make her breathe easier. Nothing was working. Finally she somehow grabbed her breath, the tears flowing down her eyes, holding on to her stomach with all the strength she had. He put his hand on her shoulder. She pushed him off.
"You don't want me."
He reached up, pushing the fluttering hair away from her eyes. She let him, then again moved away. The clouds that he had seen hours ago were above them. The wind had grown strong and fierce. The rain was threatening them, warning them of a painful encounter.
"I'm sorry . . . "
She stopped in her tracks, her eyes growing wider, her expression changing. She looked straight at him, her mouth began to form the words, but it was unsuccessful. She tried again.
"I'm dying, John."
Days slowly dragged on until eternity. Every second felt like an hour. The heat was unbearable, turning the grassy plains into desserts. The animals barely walked, dehydrated and unmotivated. The women and children stayed in the shade, made only cooler by a few degrees. He spent the majority of the time in the scalding furnace. His face, back, shoulders, and arms were scourged from the vicious sun. His once white skin was now a mixture of dark browns and fiery reds. His feet barely wanted to make the walk home. The sun had begun to descend on its daily journey, yet the temperature had not decreased. The sand under his feet sizzled with every step. The crickets chirped hidden in the weeds. The only sound that of vultures searching for their prey. He continued. Every labored step drained him of all his energy. His shoes felt too heavy on his feet. His clothes: an unnecessary burden that weighed him down by tons. He could see the horizon starting to spin around him. His footing was rash and uncontrolled.
He wanted to make it home, to that shack in the middle of the plains, and lie down. He didn't want to move. The mass of sick and dying patients, young and old, big and small, strong and weak. All became too much to bear. He envied her for being here. She had somehow managed to live through it all. He saw the building in the distance, the sun almost officially departed. He wandered slowly, the sweat pouring down his temples and cheeks, soaking his shirt and body. He reached up the streams that threaten to block his vision. The salt ran over the wounds, burning and corroding him. He was now not a novice to pain. He learned to deal. There was no other way. He made it to the first steps, sitting down upon the parched wood. It was burning through his shorts, but any rest for his aching muscles. The pain transcended from his head toward his neck and back, all the way to his calves. Movement was impossible. He lay down on the steps. The unfinished wood digging slivers into his skin. He could feel the nails from the boards penetrating into his side. He didn't care.
He heard the patter of footsteps above him. The sound of light bare feet upon wood. A sound that is so common to homes in every country, to every people. The slow progression of growth. Her breathing was heavy. The humidity made the air thicker. She was almost wheezing, trying to take in oxygen, but only being able to fill one fourth of her lungs. Yet she didn't falter, she stood straight and looked out into the horizon. She reminded him of a statue, a graceful, elegant statue that stood through the best and worst conditions, only to come out stronger in the end. Time and tortures only made her more worthy of the honors, the imperfections making her more valuable.
He felt her hands slip carefully in front of him, handing him a cup of water. He took the life-preserving liquid, slowly sipping it, as if it would disappear and never return. He needed it. His body craved it. The water he lost would never be replaced from his body, he took all he could get. It ran down his throat like water putting out a fighting fire. He felt the flutter of her skirt against his arm as she walked past him, sitting down a few steps away from him. Her hair fluttered in the almost non existent breeze. Her shirt hung on her body. She was so tiny. Her hands were barely twigs, the muscles and bones protruding through her skin. Her eyes were bloodshot, her skin pale as the white on her blouse.
She stood up, refusing to let her mind lose the battle with her body. Her steps were slow and precise. Her walk was different, stepping on her toes, as if testing the ground for imperfections. He never paid much attention to her walk. He never thought he needed to. He never noticed the way she always pulled her arms in front of her chest, creating a barrier. She was secluded, by choice. He placed the cup on the stairs. He would take it in on his way back. His feet groaned as he stood, but he walked after her. She walked slow, oblivious to the outside world. He saw storm clouds in the distance. Any rain would be nice.
He walked in step with her, every movement of hers he mimicked until he was behind her. He could see her hands shaking. Her eyes were closed as she stood in the midst of the wind. He stood watching her, feeling all her emotions. They raged through him: pain, frustration, anger, hurt, jealousy. Yet there was most prevalent: peace. She was at peace. He couldn't understand why. She was a complex, unknown, indiscernible person with so many layers built upon herself he could never get through all of them to understand who she was. He took a step closer to her.
His hand reflexively reached and rested on her hip. She jumped slightly, until she turned and stared at him as if he was a stranger, an unknown creature who dared to disrupt her beauty. He was infecting her with a disease through his touch, and the longer he kept his hand upon her skin, the more of the poison was absorbed. She didn't flinch, barely moved. He felt nothing under his hand except for her moist skin and bone. There was no muscle, no protection, simply the hard cartilage every body had. She was a living, breathing, walking skeleton and nothing more.
Her body shifted, he looked into her eyes. He could see her screaming out for something. He didn't know what she wanted. He only did what he knew he should have done every night. He pulled her into his arms. Her head rested on the same spot on his chest, his hands wrapped around the same place they always did. It was a reflex, a magnet pulling his hands upon the resting point. He watched her, her eyes were closed, her breathing fast and forced. He saw a sliver of a tear peek out from under her eyelids. He pulled her closer to him, the tears he had longed to see he was finally seeing. The warm drop fell upon his skin. It physically burned him. He could see the scar forming. The red slash a reminder of their pain. His hands ran up and down her back, yet the only thing he could feel was her spine, sticking out and stabbing him with every run up or down. She was as fragile as a porcelain doll, a figure made entirely out of glass.
He locked her gaze, her brown eyes pulling him deeper and deeper into the relentless quicksand. He could see his past, present, and future in her. He could feel all the pain coming back into his heart. The nights he spent wondering if he would ever be happy, if life would be kind to him. He wished for an angel. Some guiding light to help him. He never once thought of her. He forgot her best he could. She was a stain upon his once perfect life. And suddenly she just became the world and everything in it.
His head moved closer to hers, their eyes interlocked, never letting go. He could almost feel it, the electricity, the magic, the spark. It was always there, as good as the first time, only getting better with time. He felt his lips meet hers. His lips were moist against her dry, wind-beaten and chapped ones. There was little movement. The world stood still around them. Suddenly everything she felt inside was transferred to him. His heart was pounding and he was left gasping for air. His body ached with the added burden. His hands were shaking, his mind going numb. He broke away. He was almost repealed by her, not being able to take it all in at once.
He could feel her staring at him. The same questions were running through his mind. What fate brought us here? Why were we destined to hurt each other? The powers that control the world are never just, a simple fact every human learns. He held onto her with all the strength he had, yet it would never be enough. She closed her eyes. Her body began the struggle away from him. He held on physically now, his hands wrapped around her waist. She always ran. There was no changing that. He hoped to hold her there, have her tell him the truth.
"Abby . . . Please . . . "
She stopped. She held onto his arms, searching for the air that was not coming into her body. He helped her stand, searching for anything to make her breathe easier. Nothing was working. Finally she somehow grabbed her breath, the tears flowing down her eyes, holding on to her stomach with all the strength she had. He put his hand on her shoulder. She pushed him off.
"You don't want me."
He reached up, pushing the fluttering hair away from her eyes. She let him, then again moved away. The clouds that he had seen hours ago were above them. The wind had grown strong and fierce. The rain was threatening them, warning them of a painful encounter.
"I'm sorry . . . "
She stopped in her tracks, her eyes growing wider, her expression changing. She looked straight at him, her mouth began to form the words, but it was unsuccessful. She tried again.
"I'm dying, John."