from bloodied hands

It's been a year now that you've been together, but that's much less than the years you were apart. You had somewhat been in contact with her that entire time, but that doesn't make up for the fact that she grew up without you. Childhood promises fell by the wayside and you fell out of each other's lives, growing further and further apart as time went on.

You feel a strong twinge of guilt. She had to learn what the world was like, without you. She had to come to grips with harsh realities, without you. You should have been there, you tell yourself. And there's nothing that can make up for the fact that you weren't.

This woman standing in front of you, she has an entire life that you don't know about. That you'll never know about. No amount of words from her mouth could inform you of all that you've missed. There's an infinity inside of her that you'll never know. You pray that you'll spend the rest of your life trying, though.

Who was she, to other people? A best friend? A rebellious daughter, a partner in crime, the one that got away? To you, she's… Well, she's everything. She is a best friend. And a partner, a lover, your family, your life. You feel like you've only just found her again, and yet you'd be lost without her.

You wonder what she's like when you're not in the room. You can't imagine her being any less elegant, any less beautiful. Does she tell herself these same things you're thinking now? Does she feel guilt for not being with you as you grew up? You suppose you could ask her, but she might not tell you. Not right now, at least.

It would be later, when you're sharing a bed with her, both exhausted from the day, or from a night out, or from making love. You'd turn to her and say, "I wish I'd never left you." Her green eyes would sparkle as she smiles at you, and she would lift a hand to push your hair back from your forehead. And she'd say, "You never did."

He reaches higher, gingerly touches his left eye. It still... aches, from the vision. He's glad it's there, but it still doesn't feel... right. He can still feel the cold metal of the key in it, as if from a parallel reality. As if it were still stuck there, on a different plane.

As he stands there and stares at his strange reflection, John decides that this is not him. There is something too wrong about it. He feels placed here, he feels... grafted. Who could have put him here, and why? What other plane, other dimension, other memory was he in? Where was he really?

He thinks of the dream. The abandoned church in front of the cornfield. Was he still there? Still fighting off the demonic ghost of some monster from his deep memories? Perhaps he was still there but twenty-three years ago, still a child at the orphanage, unwitting to what was about to happen to him. Could he stop it, if that was the case?

Maybe he's still in the forests of Snake Meadow Hill Road, looking for the girl whose soul he condemned. The weight of the rifle is heavy in his hands even now. What had he done? He almost couldn't remember. If he was there, he could only hope he puts the rifle back down.

He could be in the psychiatric institute, still. It was true he had lost a chunk of himself there when he left. He hopes for his own sake he's not there, because on this side, there's nothing stopping him from taking his own life. He had wanted to more than almost anything, then.