Things with Helene were still new- well, not her presence in his life, that he had grown used to quite some time ago, but the change in their dynamic. Was she his girlfriend? He’d been assuming so, or rather referring to her as such in his head when he thought about her- even now, when he was low and wobbly and almost entirely focused on work, she popped into his head sometimes- but it wasn’t as if he really knew what that meant these days.
What did she expect? What did she want? Was he supposed to call every day? Did she want flowers, well thought out dates, heart felt words written out in cards? Perry… Well, maybe he could do those things. He wanted to try and do those things. He’d been thinking about them, just didn’t know if he actually could do them. Walks through the forest- the parts he knew were safe- nights over at the hunted deer when he knew they were having live music, making her dinner. He was a decent enough cook, even if he didn’t bother much for himself. Stick on a good old vinyl and make her dinner, light that fireplace he had but never used.
He thought about doing all that with her, but could barely work up the energy to get off the couch and brush his teeth right now, never mind leave the house.
And if he thought about it enough Perry knew what had put him in a mood this time around. February had been months ago now, but considering how thuroughly he’d thrown hismelf into work and Helene it shouldn’t be surprising that it was only now he was dealing with it. Re-living those months on the run, only this time there was no monster. Just him and the tightness in his chest that wouldn’t go away.
Looking at her, sitting on his sofa anf twisting the rings on her hand around like a lifeline he wondered if she didn’t feel a similar tightnes sometimes. He didn’t know everything that she’d gone through, but he knew enough to figure that wouldn’t be unreasonable. She knew, though. Helene had lived through his nightmare with him now. They hadn’t really talked about it. Well, he hadn’t. Perry sighed, resting his chin in the palm of his hand and turning to gaze at her properly. Still so pretty, even when she fretted.
“I’m…” Fine, honestly. That was what he should be saying. He should tell Helene that he’s fine and she doesn’t need to worry but– what would that do? He’d lived in Swynlake for years without really making any friends and he kept telling everyone he was fine, and it wasn’t true.
Perry Flynn was still angry, and he was still scared for no reason, and he had been all that and alone to boot. “It comes back to me sometimes.” He says after a long drag on his cigarette, frowning and turning to stare out the window, “How I felt back then. When he was after me.” His voice is soft and dispassionate, like a man making small talk. Or a man trying not to have a break down. “It hasn’t in a long time, but… That dream, you know. It was a better version of it, with you there. But it still… I still…” Perry cleared his throat before smoking again, “I know he can’t get out. But I thought I knew that the first time, too.”
Hélène wondered often about the things she had seen, lived through, all those months ago with Perry. There were things that people very rarely brought up again after they had come up, she knew, but she didn’t know how to talk about this, even when it beat against the cage of her chest and fluttered in her neck alongside her pulse; there, real and fleeting, and entirely ignorant of her wanting to ignore it. If it hurt Perry then, well, it could be closed away but there was a feeling that she had that made her want to talk about it.
She just didnt know how to begin.
Dark eyes flitted back to his face, finely-boned hands settling into the curl of her lap, head tilting as she took in his face, the tiredness that hang there and colored his face like an old bruise. Looked at him and smiled, a small, polite little thing with a flash of teeth, eyes crinkling in understanding. Because she did, in her own way.
“Me too,” she said, voice soft, barely carrying across the opening between them. Her fingers twitched and fidgeted with the softness of her skirts, aching to curl her legs up into her chest. Instead, she slipped her shoes from her feet and hooked her hands under her knees when she curled her legs beneath her body. “It is...hard. To forget what he did to me. To Claude, too, though I--”
She stopped, swallowed, bowed her head.
“He is dead,” she whispered, spinningspinningspinning her rings and crinkling the fabric of her dress, eyes somewhere far away, “but I still wake up thinking that he will come through the door of the apartment. That he is not gone. Sometimes...I do not think he ever will be. He lives in my memories...the things he did...and I wish he could die there, too.”
But that will never happen, she does not say, though it hangs heavily in the air, heavier, even, then the cigarette smoke Perry had tried and failed to blow out the window.
