Paradox

By: Emmy

Summary: But at some stage you started and now you can't stop. You've never been good at stopping.

Spoilers: None. Not really.

A/N: I'm unofficially doing the 50lyricsfanfic challenge. This is my first one. It's probably also my last one for 8 weeks because I'm going away to a place without phones or internet or civilisation. I hope you like this though, it's 2 in the morning so there is every possibility that I stuffed it up. By the way, I think I've fallen in love with second person, it's so expressive:)

Reviews: Are love.

032. I lock the door and lock my head,
and dream of butterflies instead

He's watching again. Watching every single move you make. There's a silence to it that captivates you. You're both made of words. Yet this relationship is built entirely from the silences that stretch between you.

And it's the silence that speaks the most.

Everything between the both of you is a paradox and a puzzle and sometimes it's fucking hilarious. Sometimes it isn't. You can pick it apart for hours upon hours and end up right where you started. That's when you laugh and laugh and laugh until you realize you're really crying.

Because pain is your one true constant and it merges with everything else.

It sits somewhere in the region of your lower back and eats away at your happiness. You've fallen in love with the sound your back makes when you stretch it. Sometimes you pretend that it's the pain that gives the little protesting cracks so that you can congratulate yourself with something extra strong from Starbucks.

When you're at home and Starbucks feels too damn far away you eat instant coffee straight from the tin. It's bitter and a shiver always slides down your spine. But you like the buzz and the taste it leaves in your mouth. You never used to do it before you got married. You didn't even do it whilst you were married. But at some stage you started and now you can't stop.

You've never been good at stopping.

You're drifting again. It's been happening a lot lately. You blame the lack of sleep and stress. Days are beginning to blur into each other and sometimes you aren't sure which patient you're treating. The past and the present and the future are dancing and twirling in front of you and you get confused when you watch for too long. It's a beautiful dance though, and you can't help letting it wash over you.

Reality is slowly shifting into something else.

Chase says something and you try and focus but the words keep slipping in and out of focus. It's a little kid this week. At least you're pretty sure it is. You stir your drink and listen to the pitch of their voices. You murmur something that isn't as interesting as the thoughts shifting in you're head, and you've forgotten it before you've even really understood. It's shot down fast enough, but you're far too fascinated by the sight of your husband walking past to notice.

He turns to face you and it's just another stranger.

You think that it's quite sad that you haven't gotten past this stage yet. You've had more then enough time to reach closure, but it always dances just beyond your grasp. It's teasing and taunting and sometimes your fingers brush against it. Not possession. But a hint at it.

Just like his eyes on you.

You hope that he's not as psychic as he acts. If he is then you'll be upstairs in the psych ward answering stupid questions with stupid answers. It's not that you aren't sane. You are. Perfectly. But there's a distortion to perfection that doesn't make sense. It's just another paradox that nobody else seems to notice. You'd shout and scream and point, but energy is slipping through your fingers. It exists though. Because imperfection is humanity's most unattractively attractive quality.

Perfection is a lack or humanity.

That's why you never paint your left little toe with the blood-red nail polish your mum bought you. Nobody else notices, but it exists. As long as it exists it can comfort you. So sometimes you slip your shoes off and stare at it. When the nights are too long and sleep just won't come.

Chase and Foreman are gone and suddenly the silence is eating the echoes of the words. You aren't sure what you were meant to do, so you don't move, except for the twirl of the spoon as it dances in the coffee. The steam is curving to the ceiling and you think maybe this moment is the most beautiful in the world.

His voice breaks it before you can fully appreciate it and you hate him.

You don't know what he said so you elect to glance up at him and remain silent. He returns the gaze and it's all silence. The noise of the hospital is in another world and it's just the both of you and your gazes and no words. Words don't work with paradoxes and that is what you decided this relationship was. Once upon a time.

In a galaxy far, far away.

His face is all lines and tones and colours. A long time ago you wanted to be an artist and sometimes your mind stops being medical and drifts back into the familiar classification of shapes and colours and beauty. There is no such thing as an ugly face. That is the first thing an artist must understand before they truly understand the way art works.

His face is beautiful.

It is complex and a little old and his life is written in the way his skin sits. His eyes are bright and piercing and she's always liked blue eyes best. They remind her of the sun and surf and distant, youthful joy.

But she's a doctor, not an artist, and doctors don't think that way.

Doctors are cold and clinical and they see disease in the way a person holds themselves. There is no beauty in the face, only clues. You search until you find and then you send them on their merry way. Doctors don't notice the way the light reflects off the unshed tears or the shadows deepen in their personalities.

It's still silent and time isn't logical anymore. It jumps about and you don't know how long you've sat like this. The steam is gone and your coffee must be cold. He's still sitting there and watching you. You wonder what clues are on your face. It's a detached thought though, and the rest of you marvels at the curves of the letters on the whiteboard.

"You aren't eating."

The words are clear and ring in your head. It startles you because you realize that you were listening out for anything he said. It doesn't really surprise you that he spoke. But the silence is lying on the floor broken and dying and you take a moment to mourn for it. The silence is what makes up this twisted relationship, but it also restricts it.

Another paradox.

"I am."

There is no conviction in your words. They sound worn and tired and far too sane. The simplicity in them is betraying everything in your head and you hate him and hate him and hate him. But only sometimes. Sometimes you love him and maybe that is the greatest paradox of them all. To love someone you hate. To hate someone you love. You aren't quite sure which one applies. You aren't sure if it matters, either.

"Your lips say one thing and your wrists say another."

You entertain briefly the fantasy that your wrists could actually speak but squash it with logic and reality and feel a little sad for it. You raise a hand to verify that you haven't grown any extra mouths accidentally and notice that your wrists are all bone. You wiggle your fingers briefly and watch the tendons dance underneath your skin.

"I'm tired."

The words ring out between you and he taps a rhythm on the floor with his cane. He's still watching you and you wonder if he's searching for what you were really trying to say in your eyes. You know he won't find it there because truth always resides in peoples' hearts. You'd tell him but you think it's a lesson he should learn on his own.

He looks down briefly, stands, and looks at your face again. He opens his mouth as if to say something, but no words come out and he closes it again. He walks out without a word. But the rattle of the pills accompany his three-beat rhythm and maybe, maybe, that is his answer.

You just don't understand it.