☽
☽ for a half-asleep thought my muse has about yours
Lights out. Will settles into his cot, a stiff bunching of foam and hay, in which he predicted was older than him. A man in white hovers just outside his cell as the overhead light shutters into darkness. All that is left on is the light sterilizing his own cot, hung above his head.
His eyelids grow heavy, his fingers unfurl, his breathing deepened into waves. Behind closed eyes, he saw the flickering light, burning through, insisting to be seen behind the curtain of fatigue. Sleep came slow. Like flickers of lightning, slowly, he faded into a nightmare.
Beverly stood, eyes an unfocused black. Her fingers tensed over a gun that had already been unloaded, however, the fingers were stiff for another reason other than fear— Death had colored this picture. He bolts to her side, taking her cold cheeks in his hands, her name on his lips like a hemn. If it could only be her name that could bring her back. His fingers tremble through her hair, tangling immediately. His breath starts to come more unsteadily, almost as if there was less air to spare for his lungs. His eyes blur where hers stared blankly. Withdrawing, he sees his hands are stained. A pail crimson liquid pools in his palms, and drips from each finger.
His eyes flutter open, warranting shallow breaths, wanting of air. He lifts a hand, watches it shake, shining black in the pale light of the cell. His fingers descend onto his clammy cheeks, raking through his damp curls. After a while, sleep touches his eyes, softening his harsh breathing, he is lulled into a dream— forgetting his worries.
He warned Beverly. His only worry should be whether she had listened. At least, this is what he aimed to convince himself.
