When old lives die

by LouiseWolff

She's skin stretched over steel. Even her eyes, once so eager and alive, are now cold and hard. She's all metal. Nicked, scratched, bent and broken steel, mechanic. She's alive till the sun sets, dead when the moon rises. (Sam's musings post-Yamatai.)

15. Words

When I get back I'm trembling, raw. I feel like the only thing keeping me together is my clothes, and without them I would fall apart into a million tiny pieces that can never be put together again.

I walk past her, with her face infuriatingly blank as she stares at me in silence. I avoid her eyes, and I keep on going, away, putting as many doors and walls between us as possible so I can shake off that look.

But I can't, and it haunts me for days.

I spend a lot of time outside in the gardens, going over the whole thing in my head again and again and again. Then I go inside, and she sits there, and I leave.

I even lock my room.

How can I ask this of her, when I'm falling apart in front of her eyes, and for her it's so much worse.

I can't even bear to say her name, even though it echoes around in my skull contantly. Lara. Lara. Lara. Savior. Warrior. Hero. Lara.

Friend.

The ironic thing is... I did not say a word.