Playing Dead

There is nothing on television again.

The night is quiet, the colours of the screen bleeding into the silence, and the girl doesn't stir from her place behind the couch.
Her arms are bare, her dark hair folding over one shoulder, and he watches numbly as her closed eyelashes tremble with each tick of the clock.

He isn't sure of who she is, but her silence is sad all the same. It is the choking, damning beating of a heart and he closes his eyes.

He holds his breath and listens to the static of the refrigerator, to the secret sounds of the night, and the dim light of the television screen flickers over his eyelids.

She is playing dead, a cold thing, a helpless hope, and she doesn't stir when he gets softly to his feet.

His legs move stiffly, out of practise, out of use.

The television leads his way, stumbling light over the patchy carpet, and when he stands close to her head he can feel her breath as it whistles over his toes.

She lies still, her eyelashes like velvet rings over her cheeks, and he bends to his knees before her.
There is the distant sound of traffic on the highway, the slamming of a car door, and his hand is hesitant as it reaches out to touch her shoulder.

She is all sharp bones and angles beneath his palm, a broken bird, a dying saint.
Her breaths are small and when he holds one shoulder blade he can feel her heartbeat. It is a gentle wing beat against his fingers and he covers his mouth.

His bones crack loudly as he lies down beside her. The sound is invasive, unexpected, and he winces, some part of him still expecting her to wake up.
She does not.

Her breaths skate across his cheeks now, her half curled hand almost brushing the crown of his head, and he closes his eyes.
The darkness is so complete it steals the air from his lungs.

The carpet is rough beneath his cheek, the sound of the refrigerator impossibly loud.
He lies there, beside a girl that he has never met, and he holds onto the slowing beat of his heart.
For a moment he can imagine the things he will say when she wakes. If she wakes.

He can picture the way that she will twist in the sheets of his bed, how soft the skin of her thighs will be against his mouth.

He knows everything she will ever be, everything she will ever hope for him to be and his heart shudders and cracks within his chest.

She owns him, this silent girl on the floor of his living room.
She owns him without even opening her eyes.

The girls beside him stirs, her hand tightens on the hair at the top of his head.
He plays dead.