- 069. Numb
Before he died, Yasu rarely remembered her dreams; her waking world was far better a place than that of the sleeping, anyway.
After, though, she dreams and remembers. Curled up on the cold hard ground she dreams of beds, comfort, feet enclosed in toeshoes, rolypoly babies. She has nostalgia dreams, what-if dreams, could-be dreams, crazy dreams, happy dreams, duck dreams; more often than not she wakes up crying, as if she doesn't do so enough when she is awake.
Other times, she dreams of him. He is ghostly, glowing bright, stars in his hair, his eyes. Silently, he smiles, wipes her tears away, never a noise.
Don't worry. Don't cry for me. Like a hand squeezing hers gently, so warm, such a comfort. Smile. I'll give you your tears back once you let go of me.
But oh, what a stubborn girl she is.
If I don't cry, I don't feel. She begs him. I'm alive, I feel, I hurt, therefore, I am.
When she opens her damp full eyes in the morning (or evening, afternoon, middle of the night; time is lost to her), it feels so strange. The whole world should stop and mourn with her.
But, she thinks ironically to herself, rising and wandering over to the cookfire for a meal she can't taste, it already has.
