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The Return (v. 2)


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All: This is a story I wrote a couple of years ago and have lately resolved to work into the best shape possible. After a flurry of revisions I have gotten it to what I believe is a decent "second" draft.

 

There are three parts. Below is the first. If there's any interest I will follow up with the second and third parts. Critiques are encouraged, even technical and pointedly specific ones, as I'm trying to go through it with a fine-toothed comb. For reference, here's the original draft (though some of the text was lost in the board transfer, it seems): viewtopic.php?f=37&t=43745

 

Thanks, all.

 

-COEM

 

==========

 

For a moment’s fraction Paul saw the sole object of his life’s happiness; the blissful image seared into his mind as if pressed from an eternity—but before the moment even passed, all he saw flickered and was suddenly snuffed by darkness, and it was gone.

 

NO! he cried.

 

Pitched in lonely isolation, cut off from the world of sight and sound, he saw nothing but the black, heard nothing but the race of his own heart. He heaved, groped, scrambled; his mind reeled in paralyzing panic; panic rolled into despair, and with each passing second, though the memory still burned, the reality escaped. He could not move, at least not in the way he wanted, and though half-aware of what was happening, he refused to accept it. It left him destitute.

 

What cruelty had whisked it all away so quickly?

 

These thoughts and their half-conscious meanings darted and turned in his head all at once, and in no time, with whatever awareness he possessed, he resolved:

 

I have to get back.

 

How he could or if he could he did not know, nor even consider. He knew without knowing that it wasn’t about thinking at all. It was the feel, the fluidity; he had to slip back into the stream. A gentle dip or a violent plunge—either way he must find the river and take the dive. Anything less, or anything more—too heavy a thought, too firm an intent—would break the spell, and if it did . . . he would not even think it.

 

Suspended in the formless void, with the urgent calm he sensed was required, Paul gave himself to purposed instinct. He walked the wobbly tightrope of control and release, and by this indelicate balance the walls of night thinned and tore, and in rushed figures that flew at him like specters. Some were large, some small; some thin, some wide; some beautiful, some terrible. But they were all chatty. They spoke, screeched, and whispered as the ghosts circled round him, rising in discordant chorus. Each he recognized, but only as it crossed his vision—when it passed he kept no memory of the last and knew only the next. Apart from that fleeting moment—as they soared past, fluttered by, and twinkled in and out—the individuals vied for his attention while ever eluding it. But Paul heard in full the swell of the swirling symphony.

 

Suddenly the figures gathered speed and the swirl became a cyclone. He no longer perceived their definite forms—the orbits flew too fast and were all swept up in a rushing blur. With acceleration the choral garble melted into one roaring pitch. From the eye of the storm Paul felt dazed, both heavy and light. One corner of his mind witnessed everything with curiosity; a larger pocket held unsteady focus on his dire mission; but the broadest part fell sedated under the siren’s spell.

 

As the whirlwind grew, roaring to the brink of silence, Paul’s awareness dimmed; he began slipping, teetering on the edge of consciousness, and then—

 

His feet were on solid ground.

 

It was a quiet suburban neighborhood. Paul knew where he was now. He stood on his porch that wasn’t his porch of his house that wasn’t his house and looked across the street. A rusty pickup sat in the driveway opposite while sprinklers ran on the owner’s lawn. With steps muffled by distance, a jogger turned down the end of the street and passed out of sight behind the next row of houses. Further past, the sky dressed in warm summer orange as afternoon merged with twilight.

 

Taking in the scene, Paul noticed that everything was very nearly finished, but not quite. If he stared in one place long enough he could just make out the broken contours and tiny spots of missing color. If he stared longer they would even begin to connect and solidify, as if by an invisible painter’s hand still applying the final brush strokes. Paul sensed he had glimpsed behind something he was not supposed to see but he did not dwell on it. The scenery had this strange fluxing residue but inwardly everything was firm again. His hypnotic swoon, the subtle dance of force and feel—these were gone. When Paul hit the ground his sense had come flooding back: he could think and reason without worry, direct his faculties fully to his purpose. He had made it, and without knowing how, he knew where to go.

 

Paul stepped off the porch, turned into the street and began to run.

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I've said before--you're a solid writer. This little bit just shows that really well. I like your detail and word choice, and I'm curious to learn what is going on. I can't say too much because it was just a short blurb, but I'd be interested in the rest for sure!

 

Thanks for sharing!

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SHE MEANS TO END US ALL!!! DOOOOOOOOMMMMMM!!!!!!!!11eleventyone!
There goes Ami's reputation of being a peaceful, nice person.
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Thanks, Ami. I appreciate the read and kind words. I suppose you're right that this is only a small snippet so I'll go ahead and post the second part now (the third is by far the longest). As always, any thoughts, impressions, critiques are encouraged.

 

==========

 

Paul took off in pursuit of the jogger. Certainty told him the man was going where he needed to follow and would lead him right to her.

 

As he came upon the crossing he shot a glance left and right but there were no cars on the road. The houses charmed with their cropped lawns and tidy landscapes but an eerie quiet hung over the neighborhood. He turned right as the jogger had and spotted him far up ahead . . . very far . . . farther than seemed possible in the seconds since Paul had watched him turn the same corner. The man kept his healthy jog but the road already split them by a vast expanse. Afraid of losing him, Paul rose to a sprint.

 

The new velocity brought on a strange sensation. It crept up in a whisper, but Paul felt that his speed tugged at the frays of some conspiracy. He sensed the world was following him and now he ran so fast that it constantly shifted to keep up—that he crossed a bridge being laid right under him, the tireless builder always snatching up the treaded planks and throwing them down mere steps ahead. Paul thought if he spun around fast enough he might even catch him in the act, but he did not have time to test his theory and as he brought his mind back to the chase he fell into dismay. The jogger bobbed in casual rhythm while Paul tore with full frantic strides, but the distance between them had only grown. Baffled, Paul knew that if the man accelerated by the slightest degree he would disappear with ease and be lost completely. He tried to yell out but did not have the breath to reach him; sweating fear and fatigue, he pushed his legs to go faster, but fed with such meager gains they soon tired.

 

Far ahead the man reached the street’s end at another intersection and stopped. Paul’s racing heart jumped; seeing his window, without hesitation, he reached deep for a final burst. To his surprise he not only gained but gained rapidly. His legs excelled under familiar physics, reinvigorated as if shedding a great weight. The houses flew past and he now felt sure that he would catch him. As he cut through the air he even caught a welcome breeze, and on it floating a sweet, sensual aroma . . .

 

Hers.

 

Paul stopped dead in the street. In the same moment a tremor shook the earth—not just the earth, but the fabric of the world. The man, the street, the houses . . . everything warped and dissolved like a broken signal. With a flash all things fled from Paul’s vision and something tugged at his insides so that he felt himself rising while his feet still clung to the ground. He blinked . . .

 

And everything fell back into place: sifting, slowing, settling. Stunned, he regathered his senses. Her scent still hung in the air, and looking up he saw the jogger with his back still turned, standing unmoved at the nexus of roads. From fifty yards back Paul heaved bewildered breaths and watched him closely. The man stood still as if knowing and waiting. Paul detected something sinister in his stance. An alarming thought seized him:

 

Had he taken her?

 

Was this not a guide, but a villain? Paul’s mind churned, and he had just decided to end their standoff in a furious dash when the statue finally stirred. Paul froze as the man twisted his neck over his left shoulder, and like a sideways sunrise turned his head in a slow, glacial taunt. Paul strained his eyes for the instant they would meet his face.

 

But with a snap like a gunshot the man darted away, and before Paul could react he had vanished down a side street.

 

HEY! he yelled after him.

 

Paul chased the runner around the corner but the man was nowhere to be found. The new road ran straight without end: no branching outlets and bare as far as the eye could see. He guessed his fugitive had veered off the road and now hid among the houses.

 

He slowed and stopped. Keeping still, he tried picking up the faintest sound, but silence blanketed all directions. Beginning with slow, cautious steps, with all senses alert, he started down the road. His steps landed with a feeble crunch but in the quiet their echoes resounded. Measured breaths accompanied his strides while inside his chest his heart rebelled against its walls. He kept a steady line down the middle of the road, leaned at odd angles to the right and the left—peering into backyards and side yards, behind play sets and garages—and every few minutes stopped again to listen.

 

All was still. In his anxiety, without realizing it, Paul silently repeated the same mantra. Find him, find her. Find him, find her.

 

How? The road and its houses stretched to the horizon. The man could be anywhere, could play hide-and-seek forever. But that would mean . . . would he really never see . . . ? Paul began to despair . . .

 

A flutter breached the corner of his eye.

 

He spun around and locked eyes on the second floor of the adjacent house, and in the moment of his turning the two panes flew open with a terrible crash as a violent gust lifted a violet billow.

 

Paul knew those curtains.

 

A shock wave, stronger than before. His vision grayed, the world rippled and collapsed again, and something pulled him up and away without lifting him an inch. But he would not go. After several long seconds of desperate concentration the tide slowed, halted, and reversed; and he came rushing back.

 

The scene restored. The wind had passed; Paul stood just as before, neck craned toward the open window where inside the violet curtains hung. The house belonged to strangers but their curtains were their curtains—his and hers. They had picked them out together. A new thought came to him:

 

It’s a trail.

 

Racing footsteps bellowed from behind. Paul turned just in time to see his man far back at the crossing, dashing down the last street and out of sight. Their patter called in mocking sport, daring him to follow.

 

Paul took off. A burst of adrenaline carried him faster than ever before and doubling back the way they came he vowed never to lose him again. He cut the corner lawn and sprinted round. The jester ran ahead but this time Paul closed fast. Any second he would overtake him . . .

 

Suddenly the man ahead planted and sprang down a leftward pass. Paul skidded to redirect, and when he turned to face the new direction his face dropped all its color. He recoiled as if from a physical blow and forgot all about the runner as his eyes set on the gruesome display in the middle of the alley: a menacing heap of black paint and twisted metal, grotesquely mangled—once a car, now the devil’s artwork.

 

Horror rose from the depths of his soul and flooded its every crevice, while his body shook and staggered backward.

 

No, Paul insisted. No, no . . . this is wrong! This is not supposed to be here!!

 

A thunderous quake rocked ground and sky, and at last the invisible hand had him in its grip. Paul tossed and thrashed but it was too late. He was swept up—not off the ground, because there was no ground, but to whatever up there was. He had nothing to grab on to, nothing to grab on with, and still screaming as he was carried away—Not supposed to be here! No! Not here!!—Paul arrived back where he started, wrapped in silence and throttled by night.

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Really enjoying the abstract nature of this and the way that you are portraying the confusion of the central character.

 

All was still. In his anxiety, without realizing it, Paul silently repeated the same mantra. Find him, find her. Find him, find her.

 

This line makes me think of the 'mantra' of season 1 of Heroes, where Hiro exhorts himself and others "find the cheerleader, save the world" and it feels like yo're trying to infer a similar urgency with this mantra, and show it as a driving imperative to action for the character who's point of view we're seeing.

Member of Jnet Addict Club 12/05

Order of the Nocturnal

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I agree with Brendo--the abstract nature of this piece is really interesting and unique, without being so bizarre that the reader is completely lost. I was a bit lost here and there, but then you always pulled me back again with the next sentence or two.

 

I'll definitely look forward to the last installment.

amipaint2.jpg

SHE MEANS TO END US ALL!!! DOOOOOOOOMMMMMM!!!!!!!!11eleventyone!
There goes Ami's reputation of being a peaceful, nice person.
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Thanks, guys. I appreciate your responses and welcome any further impressions, comments, or critiques you might have, either in partular spots or (as I post the last and longest part now) on the story as a whole (I'm trying to whip it into publishable shape). Thanks again for reading.

 

-COEM

 

==========

 

The sea of nothing enveloped him again but Paul would not stay for an instant. The same haunting image that chilled his blood now steeled him with abandon. Hell-bent, the window closing fast, and forgetting all about the subtle dance, he lurched with all his might and hurled himself back in.

 

Paul landed.

 

He was… somewhere else. The feel was different. His legs already carried him down a dark and narrow corridor with no regard for his say. His body, used, already worn, like a hand-me-down suit, moved rigidly in the static air. The tugging sensation of the previous world now pulled lightly but continuously—like an inverse hourglass drawing him up grain by grain. Paul knew that time was short.

 

He followed his feet to the corridor’s end and found another to his left. At the second hall two thoughts occurred to him at once. The first was that he had been here before. This hall, much longer and wider than the last, seemed the center of some kind of labyrinth. He now remembered being here, recalling the walls lined with closed doors and segmented by numerous crossing halls, some dimmer, some brighter. The second, which made his heart leap, was that she was here. He had known it the first time, standing in that very spot, without knowing how; but this time he remembered because he had seen it and seen her here. Last time something had told him to follow the light…

 

Paul made out a pocket far ahead that shone just brighter than the rest and hurried down the hall. On the right a new section of the maze opened up with new doors and new halls, all cast in a mild glow. Paul went for a door on his left but it would not budge, and that was all he needed to tell him that every door was locked except one. The tug pulled and pulled...

 

Paul scrambled to the next brightest spot. Another hall, more doors, more light. Right, left, left, right… replaying beat for beat like a record in its groove. The light, the door, the turns… In a far recess of his mind Paul knew how it ended. He ran faster.

 

With every gain a golden dawn arose, and soon navigation became more difficult as the brighter path washed with the general daylight. Paul made several wrong turns and had to retrace his steps—the same turns and same steps—but he was getting close and he felt it: his eyes throbbed; he felt he was coming up on the sun.

 

Paul rounded a corner and… there it is! Not a side door (in this hall there were none), but a main one, directly ahead against the far wall. Rays of unearthly radiance burst from the razor-thin cracks on all four sides, the hidden glory too abundant to contain.

 

His spirit leaped with excitement. Yes, yes, this is it!! he thought. Paul ran on air. Before the door a shadow knocked at his consciousness but he brushed it away and flung it open.

 

The room was enormous, if it was even a room. He saw no wall, ceiling or floor: just a vast chamber of blinding brilliance. It overwhelmed his senses, yet, amazingly, he looked without harm: this was light of a different species. It seemed to have no dimensions or all of them, and Paul only perceived anything like depth at all because in the distance one figure stood out from the light, shining with celestial splendor.

 

She was far, but right then he knew that he was standing with her and all his joy rose to life. He had returned and found her again. Here, if nowhere else, was perfect peace, and he was happy.

 

He inhaled, ready to call out and run to her, but before he could step or even speak his secret fear arrived: all at once, with a silent flicker, the entire luminous chamber went out.

 

NO! he cried.

 

The voice was distant, muffled, not his own. Darkness reigned. Was she still here? He heaved, groped, scrambled; panic set in, and again despair; but he felt it, and knew it from before. Everything had scattered. She was gone.

 

A wave of sorrow rolled over him, his battered will buckling under the current. What had he expected? Ripped away just like before, found and lost in a single breath. Had she even known he was there? He had barely seen her face. Defeated and alone, Paul broke down. He felt himself sinking…

 

Not sinking. Rising. The tug remained, and this was something new: he was back in darkness, yes, but he had not been flushed out. The sands slipped ever faster but at least there was time to lose. The ticking clock was his life vest from despair, only Paul did not have the first idea where to go or what to do. The night was lonelier than ever.

 

I just want to see her again, he pleaded. Just to see her.

 

Suddenly the ground shifted under his feet. Paul felt a lateral movement and heard a sound like a shutter. What—?

 

Soft rain fell outside the window. Paul stood with his hands in his pockets and a briefcase slung over his shoulder, staring mindlessly at the taxis and passersby, and every so often a blooming umbrella. Ah yes, the big storm. There would be more umbrellas soon. Or fewer people. Through the glass he listened to the bustle of the street and its rising staccato of honks and shouts. He let his thoughts drift off…

 

“Paul?”

 

He turned.

 

“Order for ‘Paul’?” said the woman at the register, setting a paper carton holding half a dozen lattes on the counter.

 

Paul went to pay. He did it without thinking. Everything felt normal and familiar, and only after several seconds did he recover any sense of where he was or or where he had been. The coffee shop downtown, and it was full today: hipsters and young professionals sat at the small round tables chatting, working on laptops, reading their books. But… he didn’t drink coffee… No… what? Of course he did… but not then… This was for the office

 

Paul did not have time to think as his body seemed to have decided it was time to go. With the carton in hand he turned and took a step toward the exit.

 

“Hi, Tina,” he heard from behind.

 

Paul looked back.

 

He did not move, could not move, but was rooted there stunned. He knew the instant he heard; how could he ever forget? It was her voice he had first noticed. She stood not more than ten feet away. As beautiful as the day… no, this was the day he met her. He had replayed it a thousand times. Could he really be here, hearing her, seeing her again? He wanted to do a million things and nothing—to say something, do something, say or do anything, yet at the same time stay locked in that moment and keep it forever. He welled up and drew quivered breaths, or would have if his body had allowed it, but he was so overcome that he could only stay fixed and watch her with amazement as he had that first day.

 

She had not yet looked in his direction but exchanged quick words with Tina before the latter clocked out and she assumed the counter. At last she turned and caught him staring, as Paul remembered so well.

 

“Can I help you?” she asked with a wry half-smile.

 

That voice again. Gorgeous timbre, perfect pitch. And my God, that smile. Even after the thousandth time it lit up his soul like it did in the beginning. From steps away he saw her face and she saw his, but only one of them knew just what it meant. Seeing her up close held him mesmerized. He could paint every curve and contour from memory. He prayed that time would slow.

 

At last he stirred, blushed, and looked down. But that wasn’t what he wanted. What are you doing?! he told himself. Look up! He had not agreed to move his head… why was his body working against him? He was ashamed of nothing. He could watch her forever. How had he ever looked away, even for an instant?

 

After a half-second that felt like half a century, Paul rose up and cocked a half-smile back.

 

“Forgot the cream,” he said.

 

The voice was not his. It came from his body and was speaking for him, but again was muffled, distant, foreign; it was not Paul’s—not the Paul who knew. There were a thousand things he had to tell her, and not this. Why could he not say what was most important? His head moved again, this time to steal a subtle glance to her left hand. Ringless. He already knew that. He knew every gesture, every word.

 

“Ah, right,” she mocked, nodding to the station near the door where a small container held the tiny cream cups and her eyes falling to his carton. “I imagine after number four it’s tough to drink it black.”

 

His voice laughed.

 

“Don’t even drink it. Coffee run,” it added, lifting his necktie between his middle and index fingers and flashing another smile.

 

Enough of this, Paul thought. I’m in here! He wanted to rush to her, throw his arms around her, change even one detail and make it new. But it was every bit the same, and though he strained with all his effort to wrest control from his body, it obeyed none of his commands. He was a prisoner inside himself.

 

“Ah, shame,” she said. “But just think: when you move up the ranks you won’t have to come back here.”

 

Paul paused his struggling to stare fully into her eyes. An unsettling feeling crept over him: she could not see him. And he could not see her either. She was stunning: every detail flawlessly rendered, her voice melodious, her eyes full of life—but there was nothing behind them. She was a living mannequin and he a spectator to his own life. The emptiness bore into him. Was this really all there was? Losing her was unbearable, but here she was, right in front of him—and yet she wasn’t. What was this new torment?

 

He tried moving again. If he could just reach out and touch her, let her know that he was there… Maybe he could wake her, bring her spirit to life and even for a moment pull out the person from behind the mask. If their eyes met truly for a single instant they might even communicate everything without saying a word.

 

Long forgotten, like a rope adding hands, the tug now had at him with renewed force. It was close to stealing him.

 

If I could just feel her… he longed with all his being.

 

Again the ground shifted, accompanied by the same movement and sound—something sliding in and out.

 

His voice laughed again.

 

“Well, I—”

 

Paul slipped on the ice and only avoided falling by throwing his arm around the rail.

 

“Careful!” she shouted and burst out laughing. “What did I tell you?”

 

She continued on without him, climbed every step unassisted and turned around at the top of the porch, still laughing as she waited for him to join. He met her with a smile. At the mat they stomped the snow off their boots before heading inside. How nice to get out of the freezing cold! They made their way up the stairs, and only after reaching the apartment door and Paul began rummaging through his coat for the key did he come to his senses again. Winter… the apartment… together… Chris’s party. That’s right, Chris’s party—they had just come back. Paul began to separate from his body again. Things felt lighter than in the coffee shop. He was losing his tether.

 

Once inside they threw off their coats. The place was nothing special, just in what they made of it. Boy, she dazzled in that dress. Her perfume set his senses wild. Finally some time alone. Perfect way to get warm. They sat down on the faded green couch together.

 

Chris’s party—of course!

 

They did not speak for nearly a minute, more than content to smile and stare. Her brown eyes gleamed beautifully but Paul saw only the vacant abyss. It’s okay, he thought. It’s going to happen. She broke the silence when his smile grew mischievous.

 

“What?” she laughed.

 

“Oh, nothing, just… taking a picture,” his voice said. His index finger tapped against his head. “Don’t want to forget.”

 

Paul readied himself. They drew closer and, slowly, Paul’s hand moved over—here it comes!—and interlocked fingers with hers.

 

No… no, no… Paul reeled. He held her hand, and she tenderly rubbed her thumb over his… but he felt none of it. He watched their hands caress but to his horror all was numb, as if plate glass stood between them, invisible but impenetrable, painted on her in the thinnest coat. His arm wrapped around her slender back and pulled her in, his body having a marvelous time—he remembered—but Paul could not crack the barrier.

 

Just press, press down harder! he ordered. His stomach twisted. In all their amours she and his counterpart were just as empty to him as before. Paul tried to will control, threw one more fitful attempt to break free of himself, but fate held him powerless. He watched from far inside as they leaned in and their lips joined.

 

This was agony. The tug reared high; the edges of his vision began to fade. Was there nothing he could do? His mind spun in fifty ways but came up empty. I just want to be happy, he wished. Happy together.

 

Shift, rumble, click.

 

His finger slid under the strap of her dress—

 

Paul’s parents beamed up at him from the front pew. He smiled back and surveyed the room. He wanted to soak in every detail, preserve every part in his memory. David, Chris, Sean, and Jeremy to his left; Grace, Amy, Cayla, and Danni to his right. And two hundred witnesses, all wonderfully dressed.

 

Paul snapped out of himself, saw where he was, and panicked.

 

Of course he had come to a happy moment: the happy moment. But he could not be here. He would give his whole life to stay there frozen, but this time he knew it was impossible. Not because of the tug, now raring in its intensity; he did not trust himself. If he stayed he would only end up somewhere else, and he could not go there. One followed the other, an eternal domino. He could never keep the dark thoughts from intruding. Already they began creeping in…

 

His eyes fixed on the broad open doors at the back of the nave—his heart beat rapidly, though for reasons different from his body’s. Let’s go, let’s go, let’s go, he urged himself. He did not know where, just away from here. By now the scene was teetering, creaking, fading fast. He clung to his foothold as the world seemed ready to tear. He would find her somewhere else, meet her in any other moment. What he would not give to relive it. In another world, perhaps. He could not untie the joy from the pain. Please, he begged, not here and not there.

 

The floor groaned. What was taking so long? Go!! The transition’s gears appeared to be breaking down with everything else. Come on, come on…

 

To the organ’s cue a woman stepped out into view at the back of the aisle. She sparkled in white. I’m sorry, he cried silently. Here came the sound. He could think of only one thing. He tried to suppress it but it came raging forth. Fear gripped him tighter and his heart convulsed with dread. Anything but that!

 

His eyes met hers beneath the veil—

 

 

Paul was lifted.

 

<…Must be in the shower…>

 

The tug had won, the world had crumbled and Paul was tumbling skyward.

 

<…Table. Keycard. Where's the second?…>

 

The scene skipped; it was broken, discontinuous—a series of patchwork images. Not hitched together but floating, disembodied—and Paul colliding through them.

 

<…Dressed already? “Where you going?”…>

 

He was too late: he was there.

 

<…“A surprise, babe.” Winking, grinning, mischievous. “It’s for you, you’ll like it, I promise…” Smiling…>

 

It was happening. He could not stop it, not even close his eyes.

 

<…Smiles, curiosity. But the time. Packing. “Oh, I’ll be real quick.” More smiles. “You print the tickets?”…>

 

Every fear, pain, and panic converged into colossal terror. With monstrous force it deposed Paul’s soul, strapping him down and forcing him to watch. There was no way to fight, nothing he could do, except hope and pray that against all odds, against all reason, it would be different.

 

<…“Caymans, baby. Can’t wait.”…>

 

No, stay. We’ll stay, baby, just don’t go…

 

<…“Love you, hun.” The kiss…>

 

Stop, don’t go! Not yet, baby…please don’t go!!

 

<…She turned to leave…>

 

Please…please…

 

<…and grabbed the keys.>

 

No images now: he had left that limbo. He kept soaring, spiraling, into a stratum of sound. The voice from the phone call. “You need to get down here…” Oh, God. Sirens. And what they found: shredded gift-wrap and porcelain shards. “A coffee mug, best we can tell.” Up and out, he shed his last senses and all that remained was the feeling—the unutterable, unshakable, deathly feeling.

 

Night.

 

Paul hung in oblivion. In that boundless black tundra the stillness screamed. He couldn’t be done. It couldn’t be over.

 

Go back. Nothing. Go back. But he couldn’t. The window had closed; the time had passed. He tried to slip in, then to dive. It was impossible now, and the longer he tried the more it was so. But it did not stop him. Over and over, with all his concentration, he repeated: Go back. Go back.

 

Whether minutes passed or hours, Paul did not know. Time had no measure in this place. Only after countless repetitions did he resign to the truth. There was no going back. He had seen her the once: in that first pure moment, before it rushed away. That was real, or as “real” as he could hope for. He had tried to get back, had attempted what he hardly thought possible, had poured his soul into that flickering hope. But all in vain. Gone and empty. What could he have done differently? Yes, that old question. And now something else to apply it to. Something else, but the same pain. Double the burden. Was there no escape? Not anywhere?

 

What to do now? There was one other way out of the void. He had known from the beginning, and every time he came to it. But it was unthinkable. He would rather die than take it. He waited. Maybe death would take him first? But no. He had to go. He had no choice. And she would want it.

 

Paul opened his eyes.

 

The ceiling fan wobbled overhead. He lay on his back and stared up without the slightest move or tilt. He hurried them shut again.

 

Dreams? Memories? Tortures both: lost in one, trapped in the other. But even in their horrors they preserved something. Neither compared to this. Living was toxic to him. Each breath brought in a million tiny shards of glass; incurable sickness penetrated to his bones. Yet despite his suffering, despite his pleas, it would not take him. It lingered, as did he. He could stay in night just a little bit longer.

 

Return, he knew, was hopeless: he could not sleep now. And how could he ever get that moment back? Lightning in a bottle. That’s what it was, and that’s what she was. It doesn’t come twice. But maybe… Paul thought, seeking one last hope, Maybe the real dream was…

 

Eyes firmly shut, Paul rolled onto his left side. He knew the answer but he had to do it anyway. Just maybe. He would rather be crazy than right.

 

Paul stretched out his arm and lowered it to the bed’s other half. When it came to rest on the empty pillow where her fragrance still camped, he loosed a painful sob. He pressed it down softly.

 

What cruelty?

 

Still turned, he reopened his eyes and this time they met the far bedside table. On it lay, right where he had set it…

 

Paul reached for it and rolled again on his back.

 

Once more he shut his eyes, now only to weep. And he brought his arm to rest on his heart, where his clenched fist held her silver band only one day worn.

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While I understand the general idea of what you're trying to convey, I don't think this sentence works. Personally, it sounds rather clunky.

 

His legs already carried him down a dark and narrow corridor with no regard for his say.

 

Otherwise, I really enjoyed it...emotive, confusing yet easy to follow.

Member of Jnet Addict Club 12/05

Order of the Nocturnal

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