[ He yanks his arm away from the marker and falls back to sit heavily in the dirt – not that the dirt seems to care overly much, considering how undisturbed it is, how little noise he makes. Not even a speck falls out of place, and that should bother him, except his mind is focused on other things, right now. The impossibility of all of this. The possibility that this brief reprieve from his loneliness might end all too soon, if she chooses to ignore him and pretend he was a figment of her imagination.
If he were in her shoes, he probably would do the same. Or else he would drink and drink and drink until he believed any and all the voices and images he saw.
A weird mess of feelings churns in his chest. Fear and anger and uncertainty, made all the worse when he realizes he doesn’t have an answer for any of her questions. How the hell can he prove he’s real, when anything he does or says can be written off as some kind of madness or trick of the mind? He’s still not entirely sure, himself, if he’s some dream or not.
She continues on, though, steps up beside him, and that gives him pause, makes his lips draw into a thin line. Reluctantly, he looks up at her (and he should squint, except the sun beating down on his face doesn’t bother him as much as it should), and his loss for words shows in his eyes. ]
Well, then.
[ Gruffly, slowly, gaze searching her face. ]
Suppose that makes two of us.
[ He didn’t know what he expected to see at the end of it all. Golden light or hellfire, angels or devils – a slowly recovering Rose Creek, a slowly recovering Emma Cullen never factored in. It’s a relief, in a way; he suspects eternal peace or eternal damnation would have both driven him insane. ]
I dunno how to prove— [ He stops and gestures helplessly to himself, to the headstone. ] —this. Only thing I know is I’m here, after a fashion. And that you’re the only one who’s taken any notice.
no subject
If he were in her shoes, he probably would do the same. Or else he would drink and drink and drink until he believed any and all the voices and images he saw.
A weird mess of feelings churns in his chest. Fear and anger and uncertainty, made all the worse when he realizes he doesn’t have an answer for any of her questions. How the hell can he prove he’s real, when anything he does or says can be written off as some kind of madness or trick of the mind? He’s still not entirely sure, himself, if he’s some dream or not.
She continues on, though, steps up beside him, and that gives him pause, makes his lips draw into a thin line. Reluctantly, he looks up at her (and he should squint, except the sun beating down on his face doesn’t bother him as much as it should), and his loss for words shows in his eyes. ]
Well, then.
[ Gruffly, slowly, gaze searching her face. ]
Suppose that makes two of us.
[ He didn’t know what he expected to see at the end of it all. Golden light or hellfire, angels or devils – a slowly recovering Rose Creek, a slowly recovering Emma Cullen never factored in. It’s a relief, in a way; he suspects eternal peace or eternal damnation would have both driven him insane. ]
I dunno how to prove— [ He stops and gestures helplessly to himself, to the headstone. ] —this. Only thing I know is I’m here, after a fashion. And that you’re the only one who’s taken any notice.