His breath whispers over my cheek, almost too close for comfort. Hes lulled himself to sleep with bedtime stories of his own fashion. Theyre soothing, reassuring fantasies, rationalising moral inconsistencies. Comforting.
I consider killing him in his sleep.
His arms twitch restlessly, and I wonder if he dreams of murder or Schuldig. Is he waiting? Maybe. Me, I just dont like sleeping.
Familiarity cannot overcome the fundamental contempt for everyone around us, including each other. Yet here we are, on the couch.
I could kill him so easily. But for now, his breathing blocks out the sounds of the world.
My arms hover, almost reaching out. Scars glow pale in the gloom and I remember I was dreaming. Beautiful red dreams, and Im sorry theyre gone. But the only thing left to grasp now is the one sleeping on the couch, curled around himself.
I lean closer, carefully, and watch his eyes move behind their lids. I wonder if, if I were quick enoug