he’s seen her before. the spine-tingling feeling of déjà vu chases the goosebumps that erupt across his skin despite the heat. dead. dying. blood that won’t stop and pours up out of her eyes. tomas blinks back the vision, breath a shaky thing in his lungs as it rattles up through his nose.
“kate?” he says it before realizing it’s his mouth that opened, it’s his voice he heard. dream, reality, dream. what’s real -- ? this is real. furrowing his brow, tomas clears his throat. “i’m sorry, i ... have we met?”
it’s a question she should be asking ( a ragged priest, with eyes too bright and shoulders too slumped, calling her name like he knows her ), but the feeling of dread strips decorum away from him. // @biblicle ( sc. )