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The Drain // for Jack
Jul. 3rd, 2020 12:01 amOctober 21, 2019
It's impossible to forget what's happened. She don't even get the freedom of dreams and a confusion on waking. It's a wonder she gets any sleep at all here, with the wrong-smelling air and the sounds both too much and too quiet, distant and strange and muffled. She wakes several times and each time she knows exactly where she is, the sheets damp from sweat and her a shivering mess, not just from cold. Jack is beside her, the only familiar thing in the whole world. He still smells right, still feels right, and even in this impossible nightmare he's still by her side, like whatever force made this happen knew even it wasn't strong enough to pry them apart. So she pulls close to him, stays close, sleeping fitfully with her head resting on his chest or burrowed in the hollow of his neck and shoulder. This is safe, has always been safe when nothing else was; now more than ever.
When dawn finally breaks, she lifts her head to look at him, waiting until he's opened his eyes before she says, "We can't stay here."
It's obvious. It doesn't need to be said. But she needs to say it, which is different. As if someone might be listening, someone who needs to hear her say it: "There has to be a way back."
As if speaking it aloud will make it so.
It's impossible to forget what's happened. She don't even get the freedom of dreams and a confusion on waking. It's a wonder she gets any sleep at all here, with the wrong-smelling air and the sounds both too much and too quiet, distant and strange and muffled. She wakes several times and each time she knows exactly where she is, the sheets damp from sweat and her a shivering mess, not just from cold. Jack is beside her, the only familiar thing in the whole world. He still smells right, still feels right, and even in this impossible nightmare he's still by her side, like whatever force made this happen knew even it wasn't strong enough to pry them apart. So she pulls close to him, stays close, sleeping fitfully with her head resting on his chest or burrowed in the hollow of his neck and shoulder. This is safe, has always been safe when nothing else was; now more than ever.
When dawn finally breaks, she lifts her head to look at him, waiting until he's opened his eyes before she says, "We can't stay here."
It's obvious. It doesn't need to be said. But she needs to say it, which is different. As if someone might be listening, someone who needs to hear her say it: "There has to be a way back."
As if speaking it aloud will make it so.
