The light that breaks through is low. Windowpanes barely hold it back, scorching a fanned outline in front of her feet. All around her, things seem smaller somehow. Staring at the wide angled spool of light growing and growing, there's nothing in her head other than staring at it.
The light that fills the house is slow, and reaches her after an hour of crouching on the carpet. Her fingers have learned what it feels like, the tips caressing the fibers and scratching downward until her palms press into it hard. It must have been an hour, at least, though she can't quite figure it out. Something here feels empty as if April's forgotten what everything means save for the rough carpet underneath her, rolling between her fingers and along the bare skin of her legs where red besmirches the lengths of them, and she looks up at the light.
It's warm and golden, but too bright and she has to squint despite the window. Falling to her back, she takes a deep breath and touches the carpet again. It's all she knows, and loneliness. That, too, she feels is there. Though the curling of her fingers can scrape down to the roots of the fiber and stitching, there isn't really anything at the bottom of it all and April chuckles to herself. It's a dark, mirthless whine more than a laugh but she still gives it as if someone's there to listen to it. They aren't, and he isn't. And, truthfully, it hurts.
Spent, bent backwards and broken, she wonders if she can be done. Wonders if it's done. Wonders if she needs it anymore. It's the finale, but the reverberations and shockwaves still course through her like it's not a wealth of agony, and yet she knows it's worth it.
The next breath is hard, and stabs her lungs with perforations of anxiety and fear before it ever leaves her, and the next is no better, but when she touches the carpet she feels alive again and the nerves come back to life. The thought that this will end with no reparation surges into her mind, but then is gone when cool air touches harsh, burning skin. It hurts, but it's also life. It's white heat and scarring, but it reminds her that she is alive. Her fingers work once more, but she doesn't dare close her eyes again lest she disappear forever, wondering where he is. It's only a second more, or perhaps a minute or even a day April has no concept of time anymore, when she feels a warm weight on her shoulder. Then something soft covers her back, bare skin and marks along her sheltered, and when she looks up she smiles.
She isn't alone.