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.)

16. Numbers

The second time I manage to say "Hello."

The third time I choke on the same greeting.

The sixth time I start crying and I don't stop until I fall asleep, cluching myself to keep the hole from growing.

The tenth time I manage a shake of my head when the therapist asks if I'm okay.

The fifteenth time I take their pictures with me, I tell the man their names, and then I leave.

The twenty-first time I tell him everything.