Lay with Me

I woke up like that again this morning. My eyes parted without any particular reason.

No alarm or sudden disruption. Just the eerie feeling that comes when waking from a dreamless sleep. For me, this is worse than any nightmare.

It's too similar to being put under before an operation. A black sheet falls over your mind and, for the longest short while, you do not exist in either known world. You experience the paralyzing realization that you are capable of being part of the most fearful world: Nothing.

I crawled outside of myself and stood at the foot of my bed staring at the girl laying on my pillow. She seemed unfamiliar.

She looked like me: pale skin with a few misplaced freckles on her body, chestnut roots fighting vast strands of blonde hair, they were loosely held back by a half tied red bow, and half moons of night-black makeup hung below her lids—surely the result of another late night.

Yeah.  No denying it—she's me.

I stood there examining her—the way you would examine a picture of a picture—and for the first time in far too long, I felt for her.

It wasn't a feeling of remorse or pity but a feeling comparable to finally remembering the name of an old friend you had ran into or when you finally remember what you wanted to say when you were sure you had forgotten. I suppose I just recognized her.

As tempting as it was at first to just walk out the door and start new—I couldn't bring myself to leave her.  She was just laying there with her fists curled beneath her chin and bruised knees peeking out of a sea of covers.

She was a little lost, yes, but she was mine to find.  I was there to stay.

I crawled right back in bed to be beside her.  I placed my hands tightly around hers and felt those battle-ready fists slowly melt into my own.

And she rose with the sun once again.

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