A Year of Stories (Collection Three)

Wallowing in Stolen Moments

When you wake up I'll be waiting...

Same as before.

I'll be sitting at your bed side, reading a book, digital now because the world moves on.

I'll have a few more wrinkles, deeper lines in places myriad, but none by my lips, my eyes.

You'll notice that.

You'll wonder what kind of life leaves lines but no smiles.

I won't have answers.

But I may offer you one, a smile – to me it's charity – to you it will be like staring into a Death Mask.

Isn't that a way of all smiles...eventually?

You'll make noises with your throat, not words, but sounds.

I'll pity you then, but not enough, not as much as you'd like.

You'll reach out your hand, and I'll take it. You'll bring it close to your lips – chapped, pitted lips.

You'll kiss it and I'll laugh, I won't mean to, but...

But...

You always seem to bring it out in me.

I'll show you my book, and you'll shake your head.

That's how I'll know, that's how I always know, that your strength is returning.

Your brutal, animal strength.

Your strength and your mind.

That brilliant, cunning mind.

Soon the noises will change too, less human, animal sounds – barks and growls – scratching noises from the back of your throat.

You'll beg me with your eyes.

You'll motion to your chains and frown.

I'll look away, because I'm a coward.

Years ago you would have disagreed, but not today, today even you know.

If I wasn't a coward I would have killed you years ago, instead of wallowing in these stolen moments.

I'll press the button, watch the amber liquid enter your veins, enter arms still strong, impossibly strong, even after so many years...

Your eyes will flutter, and you might say a word then.

A real word, a human word.

If you do, it will have been all worth it.

At least that's what I will tell myself, until you wake again.