Four… and an inch
"Yet each man kills the thing he loves
By each let this be heard
Some do it with a bitter look
Some with a flattering word
The coward does it with a kiss
The brave man with a sword"
Oscar Wilde, The Ballad Of Reading Gaol
The sensation of her head floating away from her body, that unpleasant unsteadiness of her insides, the cotton mouth and the whole weightless feeling… they were all reasons why Felicity actively avoided getting seriously drunk. But the more she tried to wake herself out of this stupor that seemed to dance along the edges of unconsciousness, then deeper she found herself falling into it. She does not feel drunk, not really… she feels like she had been beaten with something hard, and she was bruised and aching all over but there were spots that burned and her insides feel like they had liquified and her brain hasn't made up its mind yet if he waited them in or out…
She tries to open her eyes, but she can't even find her eyes. all she knows is darkness and cold and aching in all the wrong ways. her breath comes heavy, her head is pounding like freaking Thor is having a party in there and its not fair…
a groan or something like it makes its way past her lips, or maybe it just resonates in her head. at this point she can't be sure.
but then a prickle that stings like a bee comes, and after that, the pain fades away a bit, like someone toned it down and Felicity finds that the cotton slowing her brain is a bit less-there now and can actually think. she can breathe and taste the mustiness of the stale air, she can feel her own extremities and open her eyes… maybe. she feels like floating and its not entirely unpleasant, but it does make her queasy.
Its like swaying forever in that part of sleep when you're not really alseep, and where dreams are the closest to reality, and every noise feels way too loud, and sometimes you wake with a start, tinking you're falling...
except there's no waking in sight and Felicity feels like she is stuck the the Ferris wheel of nightmares. And she never liked Ferris wheels in the first place!
she dreams about him again. of course she does. he's been in and out of her dreams these few weeks, always hoovering at the edges of her consciousness. But this time it's nightmares of storms and darkness and a sea in upheaval, swallowing him whole and Felicity can't do anything about it. it usual, really. not the first time she has had this kind of nightmare. eventually all her nightmares learned his name. everyone she loved had died by drowning in her dreams at least once.
but it had never felt like this. never had it been so real. so frightening. usually in dreams when you start crying you don't feel the tears, the sobs. you can catch your breath or if not you wake. but it wasn't like that at all this time… her cries come easier, her tears feel wet on her face and she struggles harder.
It's not always so bad. she doesn't always see him die. Sometimes she ses Sara's smiling face, hears the echo of her laugh. Sometimes Oliver stayed. sometimes he was with her, right there in her bed, or in his bed, and just looked at her. she fears these dreams more, fears their lack of detail, their painfully unsatisfying nature. she could not imagine him back to life, not really. but other times… oh, other times it was perfect.
Usually, once she had a nightmare she'd wake and there would be no more sleeping. It the horrors rarely sifted to anything better. But this time they do. And though Felicity can't feel much of anything, and everything she is foggy and blurry, there is warmth too. The kind of warmth she hasn't felt in so long... Maybe despite everything, today would be a good day after all, because she feels it now, more real and present than she had ever felt him before, ever: his arm under her head, pulling her close, and the other wrapping around her waist. her hipbone ached, the bed is made of stone or something similar and her toes are so, so cold, but oh… oh, it all feels so real. his lips at the base of her throat feel real. soft and warm and… scratchy? what…
A beard? Did she dream about him with a beard now? that was new.
she wanted to reach out, touch him, but her arms feel like they were made of lead. everything is so slow and useless in dreams. only fear moves fast there. you don't. you stay in place an the landscape moves around you. but she must be really really sick, or really high on something good, because she does move, and she does touch him, and the heat of a real body beneath her fingers seeps through her and it makes her want to cry. Felicity feels his hand wrap around hers, a firm, deliberate kiss falls on the center of her palm, trails of them follow all the way to her wrist... slow, long... and moments seep into each other, nothing matters anymore...
Except there is pain too, to this sweetness. To this fantasy.
this hurts. it does. she can feel the tug of it in her chest, like she is scrapping at an old wound that has never quite healed, but only been forgotten. her pain tolerance is high now, but this feeling wrecks through it as if her walls her paper. his palm on her cheek hurts too… in the best way, but it still makes her sob. His breath fans her lips, his kisses raining on her face, and all Felicity can feel is guilt, and shame and a longing so strong that she thinks she will never be rid of it, ever. It hurts too much to fade.
I'm so sorry…
she wishes (how many times has she wished this? too many.) that she could tel him. how sorry she is. all the diffent shades of it. but its too late now. all she has is nightmares and excruciating dreams where even his hands feel wrong.
she still turns her face into his palm though pressing it closer with her hand, pressing a kiss into his palm the way he did, rubbing her cheek into it like a cat.
your hands feel different…
maybe she just doesn't remember him. the thought makes her want to cling to him as tight as she can, it makes her want this dream not to end even though she feels like she is melting on a hot pan, and not in the fun way. but she doesn't let him go, and his name turns into a litany in her head, as if that of all things will make him stay. it never has before. it won't now either, even though she feels herself curve around him, feels his hand grasping her cold toes, head seeping into them. she used to love that spot on his shoulder where she could just turn her head and she'd be able to press a kiss at the base of his throat. it's where she rests her head now, and sloppily tries to kiss him the way she used to, but all Felicity manages is a moan. she feels herself being held, and its so beautiful she knows it's going to feel horrible when she wakes up without it.
a part of her - the tiny part that is buried inside her deep and still hurts every time anyone leaves her - that part, it wishes to stop this. It wishes she would never dream of him again. It wishes she could just forghet him and this could stop, because pain like this could not be survived for long. She should know. She had shed her own skin to leave his ghost behind.
I havent dreamed about you in so long. Just leave me...just let me go, please...please... i cant do this anymore...
But she could though. She was the one that held on to him. Despite herself, there were things of him she wasnt willing to let go. Its exausting though, allowing herself to feel this way.
I'm so tired… so tired…
and that's when she feels herself being rocked ever so gently, and its nice even though she feels queasy. its the thought that counts, right. and the hold he has on her is so tight it almost feels real, even thought she is floating, even though she can hardly feel her fingers and her head feels like its detaching. she feels the wet splashes of his tears on her collarbone, those she recognises clearly, because they had landed there before. and just like before she can't help but wanting to comfort him.
dreams should be so sad, she thinks. you should be happy in my dreams.
But he'd never been particularly happy, had he? he'd been bored and impatient and directionless and restless...
you were so lonely, werent you?
he doesn't say anything and Felicity wants to soff. he's more talkative in her dreams usually. but this obviously isn't her day, because she has conjured him different; with a beard and rough hands and apparently she has a thing for stuffy men now, though its no surprise that its still as Oliver that her fantasies takes shape as. he's never cried in her arms before though.
dont cry… dont…
her breath feels heavy, her lungs are too small for this. but she nuzzles his jaw in that way - the way he away knew meant she wants him to turn, she wants him to kiss. she misses his kisses so much…
i've spent years remembering what its like to kiss you lips...
to be kissed the way he used to. she has looked for it in other men and never found it. but then he turns and in dreams… oh, inn dreams it perfect.
she wants to touch him again. her hands moves, but it barely manages to skim his cheek. lead, lead is what she's made of, and the darkness makes him slip away. or mabe she's the one that falls into it. this time, maybe she is the one drowning.
this too, is a nightmare she has had before