Work Text:
The bags under your eyes are looking worse – so does your entire face, weirdly greyish-green under harsh, fluorescent lights. You wrap your body with a neatly pressed shirt, swallowing down the dryness in your throat with day-old coffee. Which one is it? You lost track – between identical soulless hotel rooms, dry-aired airplanes cabins and jet-lags. After some time, every shitty cup of airport coffee starts to taste the same, every hotel starts to have the same layout, every language starts to lose its edges. The only constant in this race, induced by empty paper cups, expandable documents and the concerning amount of sleep, is supposed to be you.
Except when you look in the mirror, you don’t recognize whoever looks back.
“You’re losing your touch” is what Mal would’ve said – placing her hand gently on your shoulder – if she was here. But she’s not here, even if you wish she was; even if sometimes you envy Dom, because at least he can see her–
“I’ve already lost it,” you would’ve said, softly, and she would smile, understanding.
The pamphlet shoved deep down your bag states that not wanting to wake up is a sign of depression. But really, it’s the opposite of that – you want nothing more than to wake up. The telltale sign of being in a dream is not knowing how you got here. Right now, looking at the man with slicked back hair in the mirror, you’re not sure – endless flights, identities, cold coffees, airport terminals. If someone asked you how you got here, would you be able to answer? Or would the procession of dull mornings, weary afternoons, lonely evenings and sleepless nights all blend together?
Except you know that you are not dreaming – the loaded die in your pocket has the right weight, the weariness in your bones is entirely man-made and the parchedness in your mouth is too palpable. The leather of your suitcase’s handle is warm beneath your palm – you grip it tight when faced with morning (is it morning?) sun.
When the car hits you – scattered papers raining on the ground, blood seeping into the cracks – the only sensation your body registers (beside pain, pain, so much pain) is the feeling of the sun on your face.
Finally, you think, closing your eyes, letting yourself dream.