I'm floating, fuzzy, moving without substance in a great big circle and who cares, who cares, who cares?
Now--a flicker of reality and something heavy, cotton-soft pressing against my skin, confirming my existence. Arms, a man's arms, human probably, cradle my form in its death-limpness. I feel like a child again, carried so. A dead child. Muscles flex in strong softness against my body and I am lowered.
I am lead, on me and in me and layered in warm smooth sheets under my skin. Gravity pulls gently, insistently--and I drop deeper, heavier, darker, thicker.
Someone touches my head, cool fingers pulling hot trapped thick hair away from my face and neck. I breathe a silent sleeping thank you.
I dream a shattered dream. Somewhere there is a sad voice, a lost voice, and my soul aches, reaching out to comfort it--
Burning, searing, singeing lashes of white-hot tear madly across my skin, flames leap vivid brilliant black--
An ache, pounding, vibrant, starts at the base of my skull and creeps sharply down my spine.
YOU ARE READING
The Intercessor
General FictionSaving lives comes at a price. For Dezena Martin--intelligent, quiet, mercilessly harassed--that price is high. But the steeper the cost, the greater the reward.
