I had held his body. Tried to put back the red but found him unresponsive and judging, naming me a beast. With jarring statements that pronounced my running away would be better so that the stigma of my rejection did not fester into the walls. So that people could find moments of healing that were not marred by the constant barrage of my being so close. The last time I had seen him the soil was calling him into her embrace. He had been tired and she had made him a new home of soft breathes and the language of rebirths.
Yet here he stood. In all his glory the sun had come out again. I go to reach, to have myself sliced open by a trail long due. He had come out of the weaving hallways like a spirit that wanted his mistreatments accounted for. I look at him and I see the mixtures in his demeanor. Hurt, rage, sadness, they all lay loud against his unmoving form. I was counted out from bone to flesh, and they looked to want a resettling.
I grab his arm, there are stories in it. Of a hand that wanted to belong , of a man changed and a gun held to a temple. And I shudder. I am so done I cannot sum the right functions of breathing, and so my heart goes down into beatings upon my chest.
" Hugo? Is this really you?"
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