Tell Me You'll Be There

Everyday Sunday

Tell Me You'll Be There // Wake Up! Wake Up!

3:37

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This isn't humanity, he thinks, this is Humanity.

He touches her hair, spread like shimmering ripples on the couch. Tears are there, a foreign tingle at the corners of his eyes, but he holds them back. She is beautiful. He can hardly breathe; there is a tightness in his chest that feels like the first piano chords of a memorial service hymn.

"I'm here," he whispers. He crooks his finger and strokes her cheek. She is everything he thinks of when someone asks him to be compassionate, to be empathetic. She is helpless, fragile, broken, beautiful.

He adjusts the blanket close to her chin again. Her skin against the dark fabric is pale, as if no blood runs through it. Her blood is human; her blood is Human. He is human too, but she makes him Human, lying here beside him.

"I'm here," he whispers again, this time leaning towards her so that his lips brush her ear as he releases the words. The cartilage is cool to the touch. He admires the curves and whorls of her ear, the way her hair sweeps across the top.

It is raining, a glockenspiel on the windows. He finds himself closing his eyes and swaying to the tuneless melodies. The sky will cleanse him tonight. Maybe he will kiss her under a streetlight, a moment of cinema perfection he can lock in his mind forever.

"I'm here," he says, this time louder than a whisper. The room feels empty. When he looks around, he feels the weight of uncleanliness. He shifts, his skin crawling with dirt and invisible insects.

Humanity lies unbreathing on his couch. His knives are sticky with her blood, but the rain will wash them clean. He will hold her one last time, unprotesting as he embraces her, embraces Humanity in its most perfect state.

He takes her body up in his arms and carries her to the doorway, standing in the porchlight circle, barely breathing.

"I'm here," he whispers, and steps out into the rain.