A/N: I meant to write this for my writing class, but then I realized this wasn't quite what the prompt was asking for (okay, okay, I didn't read the prompt!!!), so I decided to post it here instead. And I know second-person is generally avoided, but let's face it, I was curious. This is half-inspired by "Interlude", so that's why there are some similarities. Read, enjoy, and review!!
You leap to your feet mere instants after the front door closes with a resounding slam, but you do not reopen the door. You do not give chase, do not dash down the wet concrete sidewalk after her. You do not even move towards the door at all.
No, you go to the window, hands rising and palms pushing the heavy curtains aside, allowing a small amount of dimmest light to fall across your face, to smooth the harsh edges of the shadows within the room. Rain streaks the glass and throws ghostly shadows on your skin as you strain your eyes for fleeing memories.
You can still see her, now nothing more than a silhouette with fading edges blurred and tattered by the relentless water that lances down from the bruised and darkened sky. You can still hear her last word echoing in the close confines of your skull, sometimes swelling in volume and sometimes diminishing but always, always there, a lingering litany of ends and regret.
There is so much you should have said to that. So many phrases and pleas that might have made her stay or at least pause on the threshold so you could grab onto her hand and not permit her to leave. But you did not do any of that; you simply sat there in the chair and stared at the floor and wished that the present were not the present and that you would wake up, even though you knew then as you know now that you were never asleep.
It would be easier—if that were true. Nightmares are easier than nightmarish realities.
Your fingers slide down the glass pane, grip the sill tightly, are dampened by the rain that slips below the slightly open sash. Your knuckles turn bloodless-white from the pressure; your jaw clenches tensely; your vision blurs and streaks and blurs again from your own bitter moisture.
You can no longer see her, swallowed by the storm and the shadows and the past.
And you cannot hear the rain.