So 'Lily' was upsetting for many of us and I wrote this little piece in response, from Emma's POV after the fact.
It's her voice that haunts me.
The desperation as she called for him, hitching on the end, going up in pitch with every frantic fist against the door. How it melted in relief when it swung open and she said his name. The way she whispered she missed him, lips against his ear, arms wrapped around him to pull him as close as possible, as if holding on a little bit harder than normal would erase all the distance time had put between them. The softness of that admission against his skin, the warmth and the love that floated through the syllables, something sacred, a secret piece of herself that belonged only to her soul mate; it was saved, cherished and guarded, but finally able to break free again in his presence, once it was safe, once she was safe.
But then suddenly it changed. The gratitude and elation splintered into fear and confusion, every joyous part of their reunion souring in the stale air of the apartment as the truth was revealed. The absolute panic and despair as she begged him to leave, to go with her, and the anguish when he refused.
It's her voice that haunts me.
The vulnerability she was willing to show that she is never willing to let anyone see, the way she wore her love for him on her sleeve, and the way it all broke in the span of a few earth shattering minutes. The cracks and fissures in the usual velvet of her tone that revealed her devastation, despite her attempts to maintain control are what sit with me, what break me the most.
She is a strong woman. Yes she has made mistakes, horrific, terrible mistakes, but she has clawed her way back to the light. She has fought to reclaim the woman she was always meant to be with every breath she has taken, every beat of her every brightening heart. This was supposed to be her happy ending. This was supposed to be a moment of triumph, or homecoming, this was supposed to be tearful laughs and relieved sighs not choked back sobs and oppressive silence.
What kind of Savior does it make me if I can't even save the woman who saved me?
It is her voice that haunts me. The echoes of it high and desperate, relieved and affectionate, shattered and betrayed; the rollercoaster of hope that was crushed into pain within the span of minutes.
It is her voice that haunts me; that will continue to haunt me until I can hear it again when it's not laced with pain.