Sometimes she puts her fingers to her lips, and she thinks she can feel his mouth on hers, dry and fleeting. Like the flutter of butterfly wings, something bright and beautiful passing, out of her reach. Everything after that dissolves in a pool of hazy, wine-blurred memories and satin-slick bedsheets, and a drowning voice calling her name, over and over.

  She remembers waking to a grey sky, pre-dawn, and a parting kiss on her cheek. Where are you going she'd asked. Back, he'd said.

  Oh.

  Her voice caught in her throat.

  And he had left.

  Now, she's lying in bed, with the curtains draw. Curled up, clutching her head. Something's wrong. Where is he? Squall isn't here. He hasn't been here for days. She needs him now. She can feel... feel... fingers... stroking the inside of her head. She doesn't understand what's happening. Why she's shivering. Why she's whimpering. Why she can't stop.

  Even with her eyes closed, she can see the shapes growing. Spiraling. Hissing.

  Squall, she thinks. Her mouth forms empty words, buried in her knee. Squall. Come quick, please. Help me. Something's happening to me.

  Like an eclipse, like a black wing that blocks out the sun, the darkness inside explodes behind her eyes.

  Her screams send them running.
 

return