Vigil

He sat there, sawed-off across his lap. Facing the door of the seedy motel, he kept watch with bloodshot eyes. Every few instants, his gaze fled to her. He couldn’t help it. Only his self-discipline kept him there, making sure none of their pursuers could harm her. She was everything to him, even though she didn’t know it. To her, they were only friends. Nothing more, nothing less. Had she asked it, he would lay his life down without question. She was exalted, a being surreal and angelic to him.

She lay there, sleeping, so peaceful. Long, dark brown hair spilled out around her, framing a lightly freckled face. A shadow of a smile graced full lips. Beneath her eyelids, blue eyes no doubt shone with happy dreams. To him, she seemed to have a sort of happiness, serenity that he could only imagine. Walking over with the weapon still in hand, he knelt before her. Leaning the gun against the night table, he let himself rest his chin on the mattress near her. Her scent curled into his face, an aroma that taunted him daily with the knowledge of what he was never to have. Deep down, he knew his place: to serve her. To serve her was to make her happy. Her happiness was something she deserved, so sorely that so much as a frown twisted him up inside.

Involuntarily, his hand began to reach out to stroke her face, gently. He watched his own hand for a second, he drew it back, shamefacedly. It curled up into in a fist, as if trying to crush the emotions he felt. He looked down, remembering his place. Standing, he returned to the darkness, to maintain the vigil.