[stumbles in 12 hours later] I always want more pothos or antar-fic but I crave ⌛️
[stumbles in an unmentionable amount of days later] uhhhh you rang?
⌛️- 8:39 PM
The moment passes in that way that dreams move from one scenario to the next. It doesn’t feel strange; it feels natural, logical, like time is following its regular pattern of five following four following three. It’s only when he tries to think back to one and two that he realizes he can’t remember where they were, or he remembers, but they don’t make sense. They don’t make sense here, in this context. They’re from sometime else. Somewhere else.
Where is he?
He’s kneeling on the pavement. He wasn’t here before.
He’s--
He’s been on pavement before, face pressed into it, hands scrambling for purchase, and the pressure-- the pressure-- the pressure--
But not here. Not now.
Not. Not this now.
He’s kneeling on the pavement, and his gloved hands are scrambling for purchase at the edges of a helmet, fingers urged gentle, gentle, gentle, careful by his mind racing to catch up to the situation.
He needs a c-collar. He needs a c-collar and if he doesn’t have one he has to be careful, so careful, but he needs to see under the helmet, see under the cracked and stained face guard, see the face beneath, see if eyes blink open, see if pupils respond, see if a mouth draws breath, see, see, see.
He manages, somehow in that way it works in dreams, where he’s worrying one moment and he’s completed the task without remembering how he did it the next, and his hands are bare, and his gloves are gone, and there’s the face. There’s the face. There’s his face.
“Evan?” the face says. Eyes blink, pupils dilate as the light is revealed, a mouth draws breath. “Evan,” the mouth says. “You weren’t here.”
-
[make me write]
