[ It'd been a few days since her stay at the hospital, since she'd run off feeling crazed and confused about what was happening inside of her own mind. Finding Allison hadn't been the easiest, not with her mental state at the time, impossibilities tearing at her wildly, making it difficult to sort what was real and what wasn't. But she'd had time to cool, to recollect herself and come to understand that she was here to get better. The hospital stay was her recovery from a bad experience in her head and she was here to heal, to get away from the banshee inside of her.
And yet it all still gets the best of her. She dreams of a man on fire, no registration of his face or any other lingering details, only the fire and his silhouette, as if waiting. Sometimes in the day, she can still hear the flicker of something burning, that crackling sound like snapping wood and an everlasting burn. Yet it's more for her to ignore, more fantasies in her head.
But that never stops Lydia's feet. Old habits die hard as she wanders about subconsciously, never really knowing where she's taken to. She finds herself slipping in the edge of the wood, not truly grasping the why, but her feet have a set destination in mind even if they don't communicate with her head.
She sees the tree stump first, like a solid old memory, a fresh image in her mind of what's always been there, not a trick, not possibly a trick. But the man beside it comes into focus, a stranger for a split second before familiarity begins to creep in. She knows him. That focused stare of his eyes, the constant ready stance of a soldier who's never really left a war. The memory throbs in her head as soon as she sees him and she knows he's something real. Medium Americano. Black. Yes, he's real.
But her step staggers and as soon as her boot snaps the branch, the rest of it flows through it like a rushing wind. He'd left. He'd gone. The goodbyes, the kiss, the letters, the explosion. He was gone.
Jordan Parrish died.
She suddenly gasps, tears bundling up as her fingers fly to her mouth, simply staring him over. It was the second time this week that the dead wasn't dead, that reality was playing tricks on her, unable to tell what was true and what was simply her own false hopes trying to peek to the surface. But he looks real, standing there just as she remembers him, at the edge of the tree stump they'd both known so well. ]
Jordan? [ She says quietly with a shaky voice, wet around the eyes. ]
no subject
And yet it all still gets the best of her. She dreams of a man on fire, no registration of his face or any other lingering details, only the fire and his silhouette, as if waiting. Sometimes in the day, she can still hear the flicker of something burning, that crackling sound like snapping wood and an everlasting burn. Yet it's more for her to ignore, more fantasies in her head.
But that never stops Lydia's feet. Old habits die hard as she wanders about subconsciously, never really knowing where she's taken to. She finds herself slipping in the edge of the wood, not truly grasping the why, but her feet have a set destination in mind even if they don't communicate with her head.
She sees the tree stump first, like a solid old memory, a fresh image in her mind of what's always been there, not a trick, not possibly a trick. But the man beside it comes into focus, a stranger for a split second before familiarity begins to creep in. She knows him. That focused stare of his eyes, the constant ready stance of a soldier who's never really left a war. The memory throbs in her head as soon as she sees him and she knows he's something real. Medium Americano. Black. Yes, he's real.
But her step staggers and as soon as her boot snaps the branch, the rest of it flows through it like a rushing wind. He'd left. He'd gone. The goodbyes, the kiss, the letters, the explosion. He was gone.
Jordan Parrish died.
She suddenly gasps, tears bundling up as her fingers fly to her mouth, simply staring him over. It was the second time this week that the dead wasn't dead, that reality was playing tricks on her, unable to tell what was true and what was simply her own false hopes trying to peek to the surface. But he looks real, standing there just as she remembers him, at the edge of the tree stump they'd both known so well. ]
Jordan? [ She says quietly with a shaky voice, wet around the eyes. ]