Firesuite

She didn’t speak; she didn’t even need to. What could she say?

It was written all over his face in that smug, understanding expression she had so naively enjoyed before. His hair, in which her fingers had run through for hours in arrogant pleasure, hung in greasy strands across his face and hid his transparent eyes from her view. Her hands slowly reached out for his, fingers curling slightly around air, but he drew back his arm at the last moment and moved away. Briefly, she thought she saw a small, mocking smile across his lips; then he lowered his head and it was gone.

She called his name, but he wouldn’t look up.

It was as if he didn’t believe anymore, not in her nor himself. The precious memories that had made him into who he was seemingly didn’t matter anymore. He’d thrown away the part of him that had inspired such blind faith in her and every other person who had met him. He had forsaken the part of his personality that she’d come to treasure; it was no longer there.

It was gone, but strangely, she hadn’t felt it leave.

And what remained was a taunting husk of the person she’d known. The Good was gone, erased like it had never been, while the Wrong nurtured in his vacant heart.

Flashes of happiness raced through her mind before she could control them. They brushed her ears as they passed, leaving her with low echoes of regret and sadness, but even now, she almost couldn’t hear them. Was it not possible to return to what had been?

She couldn’t, she decided. There was no reason to try to bring him back, in the end. What had driven him before was gone, and there were only shadows around what once she had loved. Gritting, soul-biting shadows that laughed in echoes of reality, but lived in circles with eyes wide shut.

She couldn’t compete with that. To win, she’d have to get down on her knees, and wrestle the dust back into the cracks in the wall from whence they’d come.

And she just wasn’t going to get that dirty.

At least, not on the outside.