[Cut Off] Time Passes
How long has it been since I last entered into this thing? The compulsion comes and goes. Henry and Clare say I'm getting better, and while I can't speak to that, I looked in the mirror today and saw someone I didn't recognize. Beneath the patchy attempt at a beard was another man, one with color to his skin, whose eyes are more tired... longing... then panicked.
Has it been weeks? Months? Years? Spending any amount of time with Henry, time tends to lose focus. Not like the nexus, something different. How long has it been back home? Have they all moved on? Has Walter returned? I don't know. I spent so long trying everything I could think of to return, but this is a normal world, a real one. It's not so simple as booting up a computer or hitting my head. Not that I didn't try it.
I wonder sometimes what she thought when I didn't return. And then I raise my hands to my face and the reflection looks more like me, reminds me that the scars are still there, that there's no therapy or lifestyle that can ever wipe them clean.
Henry is teaching me how to wait. It's all he does. Waiting for the next time to take him. One night, after too much to drink, Clare and I spoke more than we had and I learned about her own scars. She's used to waiting, too.
Sometimes I sleep out in the garden. Sometimes in the shed, surrounded by birds of paradise. It reminds me of Lude, and old times before it all began.
Sometimes their daughter visits. Alba is a sweet girl, but sometimes if my eyes unfocus she looks like a girl I met once on the nexus, or Patchwork Earth. The way she shimmers. One time Alba came when I was in the house alone, making sandwiches for Clare to take to the shed later. I saw her reflection in the knife, knew it was her despite the ten year difference. I'm not sure we even said anything, but there was almost...
I've changed, I think. I don't know what's changed me more, the space deflating around me, or knowing there was a woman like her out there.
It's occurred to me that I've fixated before. But some panacea she'd make. The unsoundness of the idea almost convinces me how serious I am about it.
I don't see the boy so often anymore. When I do, it's like he's sizing up my progress. Sometimes his look reminds me of that part of myself.
I want to go home. Somehow I feel I'll be leaving this place soon. I'll miss them, but I'm ready to go back.
But somehow I also know returning won't be that easy.
I just pray there's still a home to return to.
Has it been weeks? Months? Years? Spending any amount of time with Henry, time tends to lose focus. Not like the nexus, something different. How long has it been back home? Have they all moved on? Has Walter returned? I don't know. I spent so long trying everything I could think of to return, but this is a normal world, a real one. It's not so simple as booting up a computer or hitting my head. Not that I didn't try it.
I wonder sometimes what she thought when I didn't return. And then I raise my hands to my face and the reflection looks more like me, reminds me that the scars are still there, that there's no therapy or lifestyle that can ever wipe them clean.
Henry is teaching me how to wait. It's all he does. Waiting for the next time to take him. One night, after too much to drink, Clare and I spoke more than we had and I learned about her own scars. She's used to waiting, too.
Sometimes I sleep out in the garden. Sometimes in the shed, surrounded by birds of paradise. It reminds me of Lude, and old times before it all began.
Sometimes their daughter visits. Alba is a sweet girl, but sometimes if my eyes unfocus she looks like a girl I met once on the nexus, or Patchwork Earth. The way she shimmers. One time Alba came when I was in the house alone, making sandwiches for Clare to take to the shed later. I saw her reflection in the knife, knew it was her despite the ten year difference. I'm not sure we even said anything, but there was almost...
I've changed, I think. I don't know what's changed me more, the space deflating around me, or knowing there was a woman like her out there.
It's occurred to me that I've fixated before. But some panacea she'd make. The unsoundness of the idea almost convinces me how serious I am about it.
I don't see the boy so often anymore. When I do, it's like he's sizing up my progress. Sometimes his look reminds me of that part of myself.
I want to go home. Somehow I feel I'll be leaving this place soon. I'll miss them, but I'm ready to go back.
But somehow I also know returning won't be that easy.
I just pray there's still a home to return to.