Apathy

At first I couldn’t understand why you looked so sad. You just stared at me, mere inches away from my face. I could still smell the coffee you had had that morning on your breath.

It had always been hard to look directly at you. It was your eyes that did it, that made people feel so uncomfortable, so intimidated. Your eyes, a slate grey, always so empty. Always so disturbingly empty. The calm before the storm.

But they were now glazed with tears, as you held me close to you. You had never embraced me before this. I couldn’t tell if I was supposed to feel happy about this, or concerned for the safety of my life.

I saw your lips move, but I heard nothing. They moved again, and I could have sworn that you were whispering my name. Whispering, gently, as if trying to comfort me.

I felt you pull the knife out of my stomach, and I watched the tears start to roll slowly down your face, distorted with remorse.

I suddenly felt very sleepy, and wanted nothing more than for you to keep holding me. I expected you to pull away from me then, to let my body collapse to the floor like a rag doll. But you kept your arms around me, although they were shaking violently.

I saw your lips form more words, but I could not hear your voice.

I began to drift off into a deep sleep. I had never much liked sleeping, for fear that I would never wake up again.

But I found that I did not mind it so much, now that I was in your arms.