More than an urge to shift where his thumb is. More than the urge to end this phone call, any plea.
And. Home. What is home? A place with wide glass window walls and rows of journals? A place where people will be too worried, too caught up? Where they will be sad, but together, and always remind him, with each look, each touch between themselves, to each other, would brand itself on his mind, a ghost against his skin. There is no place this wouldn't follow him, where she wouldn't.
If he opens his eyes just barely and tilts his head toward the table and chair, he can see her. How she would, if she could, had. One knee drawn up her chest, face wrinkled in collection of mock disgust and suprise, just exactly like the day he'd told he actually liked Macbeth.
She isn't real. She isn't here. Not the way she tilts her head, and her eyes track to him and she smiles, her mouth always just this side of uneven, before it shifts to frame the same words he just heard in different voice. Come home.
And he wills it all away. There's only a chair. Only a chair. In an empty room. No life here. Literally. She's safe. They're safe. He removed the obstacles to it.
The words mean and are meaningless. Come home. There's no home anymore, and moving from this room... This is everything. Subsumed. Blacked out. Eradicated.
Almost. Almost gone. Again.
This is why he had to.
To call Carlisle, even on Christmas.
"I don't think I can do this, again, Carlisle."
He doesn't think he has it left in him to want to.
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timeasmymeasure
no subject
Date: 2010-10-07 03:41 pm (UTC)He should feel something shouldn't he?
More than an urge to shift where his thumb is.
More than the urge to end this phone call, any plea.
And. Home. What is home? A place with wide glass window walls and rows of journals? A place where people will be too worried, too caught up? Where they will be sad, but together, and always remind him, with each look, each touch between themselves, to each other, would brand itself on his mind, a ghost against his skin. There is no place this wouldn't follow him, where she wouldn't.
If he opens his eyes just barely and tilts his head toward the table and chair, he can see her. How she would, if she could, had. One knee drawn up her chest, face wrinkled in collection of mock disgust and suprise, just exactly like the day he'd told he actually liked Macbeth.
She isn't real. She isn't here. Not the way she tilts her head, and her eyes track to him and she smiles, her mouth always just this side of uneven, before it shifts to frame the same words he just heard in different voice. Come home.
And he wills it all away. There's only a chair.
Only a chair. In an empty room. No life here. Literally.
She's safe. They're safe. He removed the obstacles to it.
The words mean and are meaningless. Come home.
There's no home anymore, and moving from this room...
This is everything. Subsumed. Blacked out. Eradicated.
Almost. Almost gone. Again.
This is why he had to.
To call Carlisle, even on Christmas.
"I don't think I can do this, again, Carlisle."
He doesn't think he has it left in him to want to.