Curious_Medley
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They’d killed him before. That much was obvious. Obvious from their expression, from their movements, from his own washed-out, scraped-clean memories. He couldn’t remember much, of course, but there were little things that made it through – little bits of bleeding ink and déjà vu, scars from the world’s improperly tended wound. Everybody got them, but he knew what they were, what they meant. He’d had practice reading time’s fine print, and there was no mistaking the fact that he had died.
They interrupted his thoughts with a half-hearted swipe.
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Once, when he thought they were asleep, he leaned in to straighten their blanket. His eyes were wet, his smile was strained, and he distantly heard himself say, “I love you.” He hadn’t meant to say it; the words just slipped out, as simple as breathing.