Hands tight over a pressing stomach fire, I battle fatigue and nausea and dizziness so that I can drag up my eyes. I need to see you; one last look at your magnificent, burning eyes will see me to my grave, if not content, at least appeased. It's how I've always lived: taking the best I can get, and I'll live that way until I'm cold and dead and not living at all. Wanting is new to me. It's hot, grating and guilty and gorgeous, and since my life is seeping out of my guts, I might as well exercise my new skill.
Travelling with you has been compensation for my grey as hell, dank, moneyless, loveless life. I've seen sights that my young-old mind, cluttered with sadness and dust, couldn't even have wondered at, and as if that weren't enough, I got to meet you. To stay with you. That reward topped them all.
You'd assume that all that would have, to some extent, encouraged my characteristic lack of greed; I was the luckiest person in the universe. What could I possibly want for? I shouldn't have started to want more the way I did, only you'd shown me that anything was possible, anything at all. Now that I'd realised I could have more, what could I do but wish for it? I'm not you. I'm only human, and I want insatiably. I want all the wrong things, things I have cause to feel guilty for wanting. I want to touch the stars with what's left of my vision. I want to touch you with what's left of the feeling in my fingertips. I want to live.
I can feel wet heat trickling between my fingers and see the room moving even though it's not. I know with complete certainty that I'm going to die, but I don't feel resigned. It's only now that I have obtained the full ability to desire, and it's kicked in hard. I want more than I have ever wanted before. I want more than I have the right to want. I want you. I want you. I want you in all your terrifying glory, in all your madness and elusiveness and beauty.
As though you can hear my thoughts, as I've often thought you can, you're here. I can't see your face because a darkish tinge has begun to spread its way across my view of the world, and it's all I can manage to keep my eyes open, to lock them with where yours might be.
Your tears aren't satisfying. There was a time when the prospect of you crying for me would have brought me such a profound, guilty joy. Now it brings me shame. The world nearly ended because you love me.
And you do love me, I know it. I can hear you now. You're loud and desperate and vindictive and full of a kind of humanity that on occasion I doubted you even had. Your arm has wormed its way under my shoulders, tugging me near you. I want to speak, but I can't say a word because the broken trauma on your face is more choking than the stab wounds in my gut. Your other hand pushes mine out of the way and presses down on bloody gashes.
I smile involuntarily, knowing very well how much too late it is. I tell you not to cry for me. It's wrong that you should regret saving the world. I'm not sorry for what you've done, I promise.
You hush me, crooning sadly.
I shut my eyes. If you want me to sleep, what can I do but obey? I'm all but gone.
Your lips touch my forehead, very gently. My last emotions are tinged with surprise.
With my very last thought, I register your absence.
its not all like this i swear (kinda)