Savior

The Girl Who Sleeps

Monday:

"Harry, please. Please, get out of bed."

The choked plea, the somber tone- it barely filters in through the fog clogging my brain. The dense and ominous fog that had settled in as soon as the shot rang out a few days ago –and I can still hear it echoing.

As soon as I saw the life fade out from Layla's once bright eyes.

It's been three days now and the mist has yet to lift. No, it has just grown so opaque that I don't know if I will ever see the light again.

It weighs down on me like a thick blanket; warming me with my guilt, with my pain.

Loyal and true.

The strength of it has halted me from getting out of bed, from facing what happened that day and what has happened since.

It took the paramedics less than five minutes to stitch up my arm, the nurse ten minutes to deduce that two of my ribs on the right side of my body were broken, and just an hour of tests to prove that I had suffered a pretty severe concussion.

But, the seconds felt like minutes and the minutes felt like hours and every single day since I was released from the hospital has only succeeded in making me detest the illusion of time.

I've been a zombie since; healing from my injuries by lying in bed and pretending I don't exist.

By keeping myself awake so that I don't have to dream... the images of Layla bleeding out in my arms, the color draining from her face, and the sad smile on her lips... taunting me every time I shut my eyes.

It's all too much.

I can feel Eliza's presence in the doorway behind me, waiting for a response. Waiting for action.

But, what is the point?

The groan of immense pain as I roll further away from her is my only answer and I try not to feel guilty when she heaves a great sigh. She's been doing that a lot recently –that and crying, of course.

I haven't cried since the hospital. I fear I'm growing numb, though, maybe that might be better.

"Layla wouldn't want you to do this, Harry. She wouldn't want this at all."

But, who knows what Layla would want now?

The light has been snuffed out.

Wednesday:

A soft caress startles me awake.

The fingers warm and gentle, tracing my cheek and brushing back my hair with a softness that implies fragility. As if stroking a pyramid of playing cards –afraid it might crumble at your touch.

Maybe I will.

But, that gentle touch, that warm hand... for a second, just a minuscule second, I believe that the hand belongs to Layla and that the earth has righted itself.

For just a second after waking I believe that Layla is the cause of the weight dipping my mattress, that her hand is the one offering a comforting touch -that the sun had risen once again.

And when the cruel truth of reality comes crashing down on me it feels like my heart is ripped from my chest before it even has time to heal- the wound gaping and pouring a viscous blood that never stops flowing.

It just bleeds forever.

When my eyelids crack open and are met with eyes the same shade of green as my own I try not to let the aching disappoint show.