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talonkarrdeSometimes, she’s there for him.
He settles down to sleep, and hears her breathing, slow and steady, coming from just beyond the next pillow. He feels the way that her form curves the blankets around her, enough that he almost reaches out to touch her shoulder.
But he doesn’t, because he knows better than that.
He catches her sometimes, catches snippets of her words in the air when he reads them, and he whips his head around so fast he almost gives himself whiplash, but he never catches her. Eventually, he gets better at it, he doesn’t look directly, just out of the corner of his eyes, and she stays, sometimes, sometimes.
And then she’s gone again, because she has, he tells himself, better places to be.
He sees her, he knows it, in the lady whose back is turned to him but dresses exactly like she would, conservatively usually but with that hint of wildness, of flair. He sees her as he rides up the escalator in the mall, running away. He almost jumps to the other side, almost calls out her name; it threatens to burst out of him, and his heart pounds so hard.
But he doesn’t, because all he’ll get is strange looks, or the cops, or worse, a strange woman turning around who isn’t her.
And sometimes, she isn’t there at all.
He walks in the door sometimes, and he says, ‘Honey, I’m home,’ to the empty silence. And somehow, it’s not his words that ring out against the walls, but rather the silence, growing second by second until he can’t hear anything but the unbearable lack of sound, and he flees — he runs from his own house, from the emptiness within.
He sits in his office sometimes, and he picks up the phone to call her and tell her how the kids are doing, and he still dials the first few numbers before he realizes, and all he does is sit there, and sit there, until the phone beeps angrily at him, and still he sits, until the line goes dead completely, and only then does he set the phone back down.
He gets promoted, he comes home in a shiny new BMW, he writes a livejournal entry he’s particularly proud of, and he wants to tell her, “look, let me share this with you,” but she’s never there those times.
But it’s okay.
It’s okay because she’s there when he needs her the most: when he’s a second away from giving up, from finding the pills he’s stashed away, waiting for this moment, when he’s thinking about how much smoother it’d be if he just kept his foot on the accelerator until he couldn’t, when he wonders how much it would hurt for his friends to find him in the bathtub, like all the movies....
Well, those times she comes to him, and embraces him, lays her head on his shoulder, and tells him that it’s all going to be okay. It’s those times that she appears on the other side of the bed, the side that he leaves unmade, sort of, the way she would leave it, it’s those times that he swears to god there was less tea in that teacup he set out for her.
She isn’t real, the others say, and they may be right, some part of him knows. After all, she left, or she disappeared, or she died, or she moved on, or she insert blank here. he doesn't remember. And he doesn't care.
She’s real enough to make a difference, to get him up every morning, to keep him from...well.
She’s real enough to give him hope, and that’s all that matters.
He settles down to sleep, and hears her breathing, slow and steady, coming from just beyond the next pillow. He feels the way that her form curves the blankets around her, enough that he almost reaches out to touch her shoulder.
But he doesn’t, because he knows better than that.
He catches her sometimes, catches snippets of her words in the air when he reads them, and he whips his head around so fast he almost gives himself whiplash, but he never catches her. Eventually, he gets better at it, he doesn’t look directly, just out of the corner of his eyes, and she stays, sometimes, sometimes.
And then she’s gone again, because she has, he tells himself, better places to be.
He sees her, he knows it, in the lady whose back is turned to him but dresses exactly like she would, conservatively usually but with that hint of wildness, of flair. He sees her as he rides up the escalator in the mall, running away. He almost jumps to the other side, almost calls out her name; it threatens to burst out of him, and his heart pounds so hard.
But he doesn’t, because all he’ll get is strange looks, or the cops, or worse, a strange woman turning around who isn’t her.
And sometimes, she isn’t there at all.
He walks in the door sometimes, and he says, ‘Honey, I’m home,’ to the empty silence. And somehow, it’s not his words that ring out against the walls, but rather the silence, growing second by second until he can’t hear anything but the unbearable lack of sound, and he flees — he runs from his own house, from the emptiness within.
He sits in his office sometimes, and he picks up the phone to call her and tell her how the kids are doing, and he still dials the first few numbers before he realizes, and all he does is sit there, and sit there, until the phone beeps angrily at him, and still he sits, until the line goes dead completely, and only then does he set the phone back down.
He gets promoted, he comes home in a shiny new BMW, he writes a livejournal entry he’s particularly proud of, and he wants to tell her, “look, let me share this with you,” but she’s never there those times.
But it’s okay.
It’s okay because she’s there when he needs her the most: when he’s a second away from giving up, from finding the pills he’s stashed away, waiting for this moment, when he’s thinking about how much smoother it’d be if he just kept his foot on the accelerator until he couldn’t, when he wonders how much it would hurt for his friends to find him in the bathtub, like all the movies....
Well, those times she comes to him, and embraces him, lays her head on his shoulder, and tells him that it’s all going to be okay. It’s those times that she appears on the other side of the bed, the side that he leaves unmade, sort of, the way she would leave it, it’s those times that he swears to god there was less tea in that teacup he set out for her.
She isn’t real, the others say, and they may be right, some part of him knows. After all, she left, or she disappeared, or she died, or she moved on, or she insert blank here. he doesn't remember. And he doesn't care.
She’s real enough to make a difference, to get him up every morning, to keep him from...well.
She’s real enough to give him hope, and that’s all that matters.
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no subject
Date: 2011-03-30 01:13 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-04-01 04:22 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-03-30 01:14 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-04-01 04:22 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-03-30 10:44 pm (UTC)Actually, Neil Gaiman wrote a story for Sandman about Norton I, Emperor of America, and how his fantasy gave him something that kept him free from despair for most of his life.
Anyhow, great concept and, at least from my perspective, an uplifting piece, even if there is an undercurrent of loss.
no subject
Date: 2011-04-01 04:24 pm (UTC)I've never heard the song, but I'm a fan :D
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Date: 2011-03-31 10:00 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-04-01 04:24 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-04-01 01:07 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-04-01 04:24 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-04-01 03:43 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-04-01 04:24 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-04-01 05:48 pm (UTC)Your words are pretty. So there.
no subject
Date: 2011-04-01 07:12 pm (UTC)