Night 53: M31-M40
Sleep came and left Kaworu easily. He couldn't remember most of the time he had spent there in bed, but he acknowledged the absence of experience. Nothing had happened that day. A person had told him to sleep, and laid a hand on his head. He had felt nothing. He only stayed still, and waited for the bleed of identities that did not come. He was instead left there alone, until the silence led him back to sleep.
At times he stirred, reacting to a noise, reaching out to its source. Before, it had escaped him, and he would forget his desire to know what was happening outside of his room, outside of his own awareness, which was shallow and tired. Now, though, it was more than just the murmur of life outside, or the hinges of the door. It was a voice, full of familiarity but without any warmth. It was routine to hear this man, to be spoken to by him every day. Never, though, would Kaworu speak to him. An individual who was significant to him through exposure and his control over Kaworu's life. And yet, Kaworu was only a piece of a whole. Like the Lilim. They were all one.
Kaworu rose from the bed. Blankets fell off his body as he went to engage in more familiarity. More habits. The tone of Landel's voice had told him where he was, in which world they existed now, although Kaworu couldn't recall his words. He believed their meaning was the same as it always had been.
He found the flashlight. It was weak now. It faded to yellow, and made the shadows in the room watery and uneasy. The gray surrounded him and framed a sliver of blue, drawing his eyes towards the only thing that had changed. The door was cold and unwilling, and seemed to ache under the weight of Kaworu's push, but it yielded. His fingertips still hovered over its sharp edge as he stared at the shape of the plugsuit in the closet. Even empty and dead, its relevance removed, Kaworu reached for it. He was conscious again of how his hands were bare and he was exposed, not to that which was tactile under his fingers, but to the others that they would allow in with little discretion.
Kaworu discarded the clothing he had been wearing, and stepped into the plugsuit, one bare foot, then the other. It hung unnaturally off his hands, distorting the outline that he knew existed. Even when it sealed itself tightly around him, his hands didn't seem to be his own.
There was nothing else he needed.
[To here.]
At times he stirred, reacting to a noise, reaching out to its source. Before, it had escaped him, and he would forget his desire to know what was happening outside of his room, outside of his own awareness, which was shallow and tired. Now, though, it was more than just the murmur of life outside, or the hinges of the door. It was a voice, full of familiarity but without any warmth. It was routine to hear this man, to be spoken to by him every day. Never, though, would Kaworu speak to him. An individual who was significant to him through exposure and his control over Kaworu's life. And yet, Kaworu was only a piece of a whole. Like the Lilim. They were all one.
Kaworu rose from the bed. Blankets fell off his body as he went to engage in more familiarity. More habits. The tone of Landel's voice had told him where he was, in which world they existed now, although Kaworu couldn't recall his words. He believed their meaning was the same as it always had been.
He found the flashlight. It was weak now. It faded to yellow, and made the shadows in the room watery and uneasy. The gray surrounded him and framed a sliver of blue, drawing his eyes towards the only thing that had changed. The door was cold and unwilling, and seemed to ache under the weight of Kaworu's push, but it yielded. His fingertips still hovered over its sharp edge as he stared at the shape of the plugsuit in the closet. Even empty and dead, its relevance removed, Kaworu reached for it. He was conscious again of how his hands were bare and he was exposed, not to that which was tactile under his fingers, but to the others that they would allow in with little discretion.
Kaworu discarded the clothing he had been wearing, and stepped into the plugsuit, one bare foot, then the other. It hung unnaturally off his hands, distorting the outline that he knew existed. Even when it sealed itself tightly around him, his hands didn't seem to be his own.
There was nothing else he needed.
[To here.]