Most days he feels like a stranger, someone who intrudes on their day to day lives- a burden. Then there are times he feels like he fits, like his randomly sculpted edges lock perfectly with theirs. Its so much still, at times overwhelming, overstimulating and he must detach himself and walk away. Away but never far because she is like a magnet, tugging him from his isolation and he comes to her call even though she is silent. He comes even though she turns from him, repels their magnetism because as much as she pulls away he leaps forward- drowning in her.

Today is one of those days when he can’t quiet the voices in his head, the memories or assumptions that fight him, they are never truly still. It’s so much it causes his head to ache and why not? The sky above seems just as angry, just as restless, the heavens painted with gray and thunderheads booming from the West. Lightning answers her, snatches the spotlight from her pounding fists, racing his fingers through her because he doesn’t care if they fight. She is fury and she makes him burn, and oh how very ironic the sky is today.

The quarrel continues, the two thrashing across the sky before the clouds open up, spilling their tears to the earth. He is soaked, stretching his neck and craning his head to the heavens, eyes snapped shut as the water splatters against his skin until he shivers.

Alone he stands, shielded by a tree, one which grows away from the others. It’s trunk is thick, the bark dark and jagged, rough to the touch as he leans against it- clinging for support. Deep breaths, in, out, in, his glassy eyes take to the mud, especially that through which he has already trampled. It cakes itself into the thick feathering of his legs, he doesn’t seem to mind or care at the moment- there’s too much going on in his head for him to worry about trivial things such as vanity. The forest, bruises, scars, the smell of death, a memory antagonizes him, too blurry to make out the fine details. His giant head slams to the tree in his frustration and he can’t say it even hurts, not as much as his forgetting does.

He doesn’t realize the dedication in her watchful eyes, nor does he see that she is not quite as absent from him as he feels. Everything is black in white in his world, nothing greys, nothing makes sense anymore. Real, not real, past, present what was and would be seem like elaborate fantasies. It is so very hard to focus on much more than the shadows that linger far too often in his mind, they seem to wash away his very life force and his thoughts grow darker and dimmer with each passing moon. They are the very shadows that blind him now, seem to steal his senses because he does not hear her approach- not until she is heaving in front of him. The heart in her chest hammers a tune of worry and yet he is so very still in response.

Droplets of rain stream in beads down her bruised coat, for seconds some glitter like diamonds before they fall like tears to the ground. She is beauty incarnate and his chest catches one shallow breath when his glassy green eyes find her. The storm bellows at the unnatural way in which he interacts with her but they can not mend his pieces, they are too many now, most poisoned beyond recognition. They would not lock in the precise ways which were needed, gaps would disrupt the harmony of the acrylic masterpiece and yet not even that had kept him from trying.

His face feels so very light held up by her twilight colored nose, lifting away from the rough bark like a handful of soft snow. Perhaps she is just unordinarily strong, he feels so weak these days, has he always been? There was a time when he would have known that he was never such a broken creature but that time seems to have slipped away, finding the end of a river and tumbling down the waterfall from which it would not return. The superficial wounds to his scarred face are irrelevant to the damage he suffers from within but not even he is sure of its extent- sometimes it is hard to come to terms with the inevitable. “I just want to remember,” he breathes and while his voice still holds the same deep baritone it is hollow where once the words would have been rich, smooth like a shot of whiskey.

The words are not only empty they are angry, they are searching, his lips grasp at straws the same as his mind and his brow curves while his lips grimace. “It doesn’t matter what I do, nothing works!”

It is not at her that he yells, he berates himself, sickened at his lack of progress. She curls towards his chest and he is butter, melting across her indigo skin and tucking his bony nose into the wet raven tresses that cover her neck. This lasts for moments as she brushes his skin, moving forward against him and tracing the outlines of his body where once there had been thick muscle. “I have been eating,” the words are whispers now, pain radiated from speaking them because that made it truth, that made it real.

It was not so strange the way the thunder rolled against the slate colored sky, fracturing what would have otherwise been a gentle, summer downpour. But it was a cruel magic, feeding off their emotions and if he would recall his memories he would have recognized the echo of fairy laughter that came with each crashing boom. They had played this game before, mischievous creatures they were and it had burned then, as it did now, igniting his very soul. This was not simply a fire of change, meant to lick him clean and replace the weaknesses of his mortal core. It hungered for him in a way he had never known, it tasted his flesh to end him, slowly leeching away at his self until eventually (and he realized this) there would be nothing left.

Painful does not begin to describe the ache that fills the cavity of his worn out chest as she races her lips upon his thin skin. Does she know it burns him, is she setting the very fire that overtakes his insides or did she mean to put out the flame? Momentarily his vision blurs, at precisely the same time the sky lights up with white light, a bar of electricity striking the earth like an angry whip. When it is back the sharp edges of her are gone, replaced with tender curves and eyes that wish to unhear the truth that her lips find with each pursed press against his flesh.

Had they always broken each other in this way?

“I’m sorry,” the word spilled like liquid from his blackened maw and it hung thick with regret. Somehow, deep down, he knew he had done this, all of this. To himself and to her and it is that knowledge of causing her anguish that pulled his heart into his throat. It was loud as he gulped it down, the pressure reaching his eyes and stinging at the corners that housed his glassy-green glare. A silent stream of tears trailed down his left cheek, and he pulled his heavy (because it felt like an anchor to him now) head away, twisting his neck in hopes that she would not see. How could she love something so fragile?

What aren’t you telling me?

Trembling legs found him then, as she pulled away he lurched, unable to steady himself with the sudden movement and he stumbled forward, knees to the mud. Normally he would have tried to immediately get up but he knew better to do so now, he had fallen like a rock and sharp pain shot up his body from the fall. He looked up at her now, lifting his black nose to the air to find her and not knowing exactly what to say. A single thought and worry formed though, and it was hard to ask but the alternative scared him and he didn’t know why. “Malis?” her name was a quiver. “Will you be with me, when it’s time?” His eyes were more glass now than ever, filling with water and taking on the frightened look of a child. They asked juvenile questions without speaking, will it hurt, where will I go?

“I don’t want to die alone,” because he felt so singular these days, unwhole and unmade in instant and something about her made him feel brave enough to face the end.