Rescue

State of CI: I've started labelling my posts to keep everything all organized. So far they're all sorted into "essay", "story", "discussion" or "memory". "Story" is a misnomer though, as most of my writings here won't be coherent pieces on their own but the writer's equivalent of doodles.

The first two paragraphs of a new piece that resulted from a weird dream, currently sucks, and has the working title Rescue, which also sucks.

Afterwards, she lay so still in my bed. She had, of course, lost weight, and the fact that she was dressed in a pair of my boxers and one of my t-shirts made her look even tinier than usual, impossibly so, barely a sliver of flesh and girl. I pulled up the comforter and it devoured the sliver like dark clouds over the thinnest moon. Her eyes, both blackened, were closed, and for that I was grateful. The memory was more than enough. I pulled my gaze from her swollen face down to my hands, those terrible instruments I still could only half believe had done this.

My beeper rang. Work. I was off that day, but I knew they’d call me in once they discovered her missing – what would later be referred to as The Incident - since I had been on duty the night before. My watch read 5:00am. We were expected to immediately answer every call, but I couldn’t look too suspicious. I considered leaving her a note in case she woke up before I got back, but by my calculations, she’d be out at least five more hours, and I had no idea what I would say. I changed into a fresh uniform, rubbed my eyes red, and left.