black sun

“Do you believe in me?”

“What?” he asked, and her long brown fingers braceleted his wrist.

“Do you-”

“I heard.”

She frowned. Her fingers tightened, dug into his flesh, fingertips slimming acute, sliding into the face of his wrist, parallel and then into his veins. He swallowed, choked, words become strips of sandpaper scraped face-to-face: “Do you… believe in me?”

The fingers slid deeper, becoming (he could tell, for he felt nothing more solid than melted ice) his blood, until her hand butted his wrist, flattened.

His own fingers groping her quickened pulse.

“I…” her lips had darkened, as had her eyes, though perhaps that was only the light as her face tilted down to watch their hands. He followed her gaze, blinked: their wrists were joined, seamless, he-

The jerk of his arm and the echoing snap, like a twig, or the hollow bone of a bird; a shiver of pain that only made him pull harder; the time-lapse, collapsing-bridge bend of her arm, and she was still looking at the join, like a habitual insomniac regarding the dawn.

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~ by ironcupshrug on 01/26/2011.

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