One story. Two perspectives. One nightmare, two eyes flickering between four lids. Bottom, top. Heads or tails: what you can’t make of this. What I couldn’t make of this. What he can’t. What’s to make of this?
It doesn’t matter. In a minute, it won’t exist anymore. In two, nothing else will either.
This is the moment that you feared would come. They fall in a pattern that you’d call “around you,” even though you know they’re miles away. Not yet close enough to kill, not close enough to see, but enough to hear. You tremble, then swear under your breath. You’re trying to be strong; but it’s just not working. You look up from your headless cocoon of arms, cotton and leather as something warm and wet slithers into the pores of your scalp. He sighs, a shudder that started in the spinal fluid travels up to the tips of his hair; he shakes his head, trying to beat it to death with whiplash. ‘Fuck,’ he says, ‘I’m sorry.’ You ask why, and for a minute he says nothing. ‘Because I don’t know what to do,’ he says, ‘the ring on your finger says I’m supposed to protect you. But I can’t do a thing to stop this. I can’t do a thing.’
You look up, murmur matter-of-factly. ‘Neither can anyone else.’