Like a wound, his body ached for her.

He longed to see the mottled colour of her eyes, feel the silkiness of her warm skin. He was not the same without her. It was almost as though he had a weight on his shoulders, or perhaps a hollow void inside his chest; the edges burned when he thought of her, and he feared he might just cave in completely. He could not reach her, where she was. He could only sit and wait in the hopes that they might cross paths again, be it in this life or the next, which ever came sooner. He would have gladly died to be truly in her presence again, so distraught was he to have lost her. The moment her eyes had closed, he knew he had lost the battle this time. She was gone. Lost to the void of hallucinations, of dreams and nightmares; where everything and nothing made sense. 

With a resigned sadness, he gathered up the syringes and debris that lay scattered around her, throwing them into the fire to destroy them. She did not object, nor did she respond in any way other than to sigh through her delusions. He knelt over her, smoothing a strand of matted, unruly hair that had fallen across her cheek. Gently kissing her bruised lips, he cradled her destroyed frame, cursing the people who had lured her into their dark world.

Humming to her, he sat waiting for the poison to leave her system again.


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