Triptych
2. Moment
And somehow he can't help the overwhelming feeling that it's all worth it, when he comes round the rock and sees her curled up like a child in the crook of the beast's arm.
He can still remember the horror of the deaths, the terrible snap of Hayes' body on the cliff wall, the still face of Choy amidst the black grit. But somehow he knows that they could never risk too much, not for her, not for Ann.
Jack tiptoes forward, every footstep a knell in his ears. He cannot be too careful. Everything rests on the balance of this moment, this one precious moment.
Outside the night is filled with the shrieking of the bat-creatures and the snoring of the ape. But in his head the silence is heavier than the sea, pressing down on him, so that he can hear nothing but the dreadful loudness of his whisper.
He says it again, slightly louder. "Ann!"
And then she stirs, and he freezes. Her eyelids move, draw back, and her eyes are alight in the moonlight – first disbelief, then wonder, and then dawning relief. Relief fills him as well, and he is surprised at how he hasn't been breathing all this while.
He's no hero, he's but a playwright, but for her he could be, would be anything.
He reaches out a hand, his fingers aching to touch her, to know that she's real. She reciprocates, stretching out to him, like a child pleading to be taken home.
One moment, and they are stretching across an impossible chasm, reaching out across boundaries, through dangerous waters, striving to touch.
One moment for them to connect, to come together again, one moment when she's all that matters, one moment before the beast wakes and breaks it all.
They only had that one moment.