The numbers. They had to fit. They HAD to work. He had to find a way to make more boost, to make the torch last long enough. Only they weren't going to. He already knew it! He couldn't let her die. No, not again!
Feverish mumblings came and went, sweat-slicked hands tapped and tapped on the screen, trying to force it to make sense, to make it so he wouldn't have to"
"Her laugh came again. A little thing, soft and sweet, it curled into his ears and swam in his brain until he wanted to rip his own ears off his head. Pain came and went as he tried it, over and over. Ears don't tear quite so easily when their owner is the one doing the tearing, though. Her little girl scent filled the bridge. No, not the bridge. He wasn't on the bridge anymore. It filled his nose. Daffodil and honeysuckle" Maybe it was just springtime that came with her, the scent of all the flowers of those newborn days. It clogged in his throat so he had to cough. He gagged then, because it wasn't flowers he smelled anymore. No, now he could smell and taste her blood. He was cleaning out the airlock again?
Scotch. Sweet scotch. Where was it' Where was the bottle? Nightmare images, scents, and sounds retreated somewhat as he sat up in the dark of his room, blankets and sheets clinging to his sweat-soaked body. The miasma of his dreams didn't leave entirely, though. It never really did, not even when he hefted the bottle up and drank from it as if it were simple Adam's Ale that he swallowed down. No water ever had that sharp edge, though.
Black eyes stared at the black walls in the black lack of light in his room. A rented room, smelling faintly of boiled cabbage. He should move. He'd always hated cabbage. He could pick up some more scotch while he looked for a place.
He never even felt the slow drip of blood that slid down his neck from behind one ear.
Feverish mumblings came and went, sweat-slicked hands tapped and tapped on the screen, trying to force it to make sense, to make it so he wouldn't have to"
"Her laugh came again. A little thing, soft and sweet, it curled into his ears and swam in his brain until he wanted to rip his own ears off his head. Pain came and went as he tried it, over and over. Ears don't tear quite so easily when their owner is the one doing the tearing, though. Her little girl scent filled the bridge. No, not the bridge. He wasn't on the bridge anymore. It filled his nose. Daffodil and honeysuckle" Maybe it was just springtime that came with her, the scent of all the flowers of those newborn days. It clogged in his throat so he had to cough. He gagged then, because it wasn't flowers he smelled anymore. No, now he could smell and taste her blood. He was cleaning out the airlock again?
Scotch. Sweet scotch. Where was it' Where was the bottle? Nightmare images, scents, and sounds retreated somewhat as he sat up in the dark of his room, blankets and sheets clinging to his sweat-soaked body. The miasma of his dreams didn't leave entirely, though. It never really did, not even when he hefted the bottle up and drank from it as if it were simple Adam's Ale that he swallowed down. No water ever had that sharp edge, though.
Black eyes stared at the black walls in the black lack of light in his room. A rented room, smelling faintly of boiled cabbage. He should move. He'd always hated cabbage. He could pick up some more scotch while he looked for a place.
He never even felt the slow drip of blood that slid down his neck from behind one ear.