Never before had Sam noticed how time is so much like water; that it can pass slowly, a drop at a time, even freeze, or rush by in a blink. The clock says it is measured and constant, tick tock, part of an orderly world; the clock lies. The past three days had passed like thousands of camera frames per second shown one at a time. In this slow time-bubble the birdsong was louder, coldness was colder and colours were brighter. All the while his insides felt as if there was nothing there, nothing to need feeding, nothing to have need of anything at all.
I told you I love you and that makes me unlovable. I said that I care and that makes me the target of your hatred. I brought you gifts, poured affection into your life and you attacked me over and over. You leave me with insides contracting, cold. You leave me with a heart that explodes in my chest, clammy skin and hyperventilating as I lean on a wall. I would still be your friend if you would extend your hand, but I know that you won't. And the words that play in my head are from my father: "If in life your heart acts like a gun, the person you face is a monster."
I open the door to Derek, expecting his greeting smile, but none comes. Instead his mouth remains an uncharacteristic grim line amid his stubble. Almost robotically his hand rises upward and passes me a folded piece of paper, his eyes almost as still as some bill board poster.
Lucy turns, but too slowly to be normal. When she speaks her voice trails slowly, like her words are unwilling to take flight. There is a sadness in her eyes, the brown too glossy.
When Keith rounds the corner he is ashen, lips almost blue in this crazy summer heat. His limbs move as if some inexperienced person is controlling them remotely and his eyes are wide, looking right at us, but not really.
These many years, most of them beautiful, some brutal, I have earned your trust. I have never strayed, betrayed, abandoned... but been stalwart, true, loving. I have shown over and over that I would do anything in this world to keep you safe, yet still you mistrust. I thought you knew my heart. Now that you've shown your hand all I feel is numb. You misread me and then feel bitter, angry, though all the while I was simply doing my best to take care of you. My heart still beats, but against a chest that feels hollow. My eyes still see, yet the world that is so close around me seems far away. My mind begins to shut down, unwilling to think anymore. Perhaps this is shock, I'm really not sure. All I know is that I keep on pouring in love, hoping for the day I have earned redemption for "crimes" based on nothing but false perception.
In this life you make me stable, then you pull every little thing from beneath my feet and are indifferent to the fact that I can no longer stand - until you fear being alone. Only too late do you ever realize the power of your words. You strike out like a tank at a child's building blocks, never realizing the imbalance that exists; then you are shocked at the outcome, the devastation. The first time you did that I was shaken to the core, now I just know to tense up when it comes, mitigate and deflect before I discover the cause and effect a solution. To have great love brings great responsibility, one I have willingly taken on for you. In a way it is your shock that saves you, that saves us, for at least that tells me you were blind to your own emotions let alone having the capacity to understand mine.
I grab my softest sweater, my favourite, and ball it up. I bend down, arranging my face into something I hope is friendly, then wrap his arms around it. He holds it while I walk away to the vault. I have the pills to arrange and store. On my return he is in the exact same spot, his arms still hugging a sweater that lies cold on his feet. I’m such a shit. He’s in total shock and I’m arranging my wares. This is why he needs a mom, not some hopeless teen. I go back to him and pick him up just like I did in the old train. At first he is stiff but then he melts into my body, his arms limp, dangling like a doll. Without being aware of it my left hand rises to stroke his back. Then he begins to cry softly, wetting my shirt. I thought kids were supposed to cry loudly, not this guy apparently, he cries like an old man beaten down with sorrow.
Found in Darwin's Ghost - first draft, authored by .
When Sarah stepped out of the darkness of the alley, Kyler could see what his ears were telling him already. She was limping, the gait that was smooth only this morning was faltering and uneven. Her ponytail was ragged, loose hair falling over her features that contorted with effort. On her feet were only socks and her eyes were as they had been years ago when she knew her beloved Grandmother was no longer in this world. Kyler dropped his tool belt with a clatter on the already cracked concrete and with only a fraction of a second hesitation, he ran over to her, careful not to tread on her feet with his heavy boots. Silently she tumbled, giving him barely enough time to shoot out his callused hands. Even then her dead weight was almost too much to prevent the momentum taking her to the ground.
Beneath her feet the wooden floor felt soft, not as much as even a firm carpet, but not right for oak planks. Saskia moved to the edge of the room, her jeans brushing against the mildewed wall. It was hard to make out the details of the room after the summer light outside, but after a while she could make out the features of the room. It was the same as it ever was, just abandoned, old, dusty. On the wall was her school photograph taken just a few weeks ago. On the table were Papa's reading glasses and her mother's knitting was greyed with layers of dust, not even a glimmer of red wool fighting through. Forgetting the floor she rushed forward, "Papa! Mama! Papa come out! Mama where are you? Mama!" Her only answer was the creaking of the door moving lazily in the breeze. She went to run up the stairs and her foot went right through the first one. She staggered backward, her mind swirling, her breaths shallow until she fell in a heap to the floor.