don't know if you love me or you want me dead;

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he must be wicked to deserve such pain;

In dreams, his memories are within his grasp.
In dreams, he can almost feel like himself again, although the self is a strange and indescribable thing, something he chases but can never quite catch. I know this, he thinks, I know him.
He doesn’t think, I am him.
It is a strange and unique kind of torture. He dreams and there are glimpses of gold, there’s darkness, pain, children, love, heartbreak, love again, heartbreak again, a cycle repeating. And there’s the angel, the woman in white, and she is so familiar that it hurts to look at her, but he can’t not look at her. He must. He knows this in every dream, that he must behold her, as if he could trap her in his gaze, bring her back when he wakes.
He never does. He wakes and the dreams fade, and he is left only with the knowledge that something is missing, but not what that something is.

(I’m sorry, he’d told the stranger, who had been kind and confused, you’re nothing to me. Why had he said that? It had been cruel, needlessly so. He is not a cruel man. At least, he doesn’t think he is. He doesn’t want to be.)

He’s back at the river. It had started here, the blankness. When he woke on its shores. The water still makes him nervous; he can too easily imagine the feel of water in the lungs, with such sharp relief that he wonders if it’s something he experienced before. His body bears no scars, but he feels them under his skin regardless, phantom pains and memories of a life he has so little recollection of.
“Please.”
He says this to no one, and the word is swallowed by the sound of the river, as useless and forgotten as whoever he was before this.

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@Agetta hey no obligation to reply since i drop threads like they're on fire but i finally felt an inking of muse and i miss them <3