There was light on her face.
That part is certain.
Not where the light came from. Not what time it was. Not what she said before.
There was light on her face.
Hold that.
Don’t move.
The stone is cold. A hand searches along the floor until it finds something sharp enough.
The first cut doesn’t open properly.
Again.
Harder.
There.
Blood collects slowly in the palm.
Not enough.
Squeeze.
There was light on her face.
She was laughing.
No.
Maybe she wasn’t.
She was looking over. That feels right. Looking over from somewhere close.
A passenger seat. A kitchen. A bed.
Impossible to tell now.
The wall waits.
A finger dips into the blood and begins.
The curve of a cheek.
Wrong.
Wipe it out.
Again.
The eyes.
Wrong.
Again.
The mouth was…
Fuck.
What was the mouth doing?
There was light on her face.
Keep that.
At least keep that.
The hand goes back to the cut. It has started closing.
Open it.
The stone takes whatever it’s given.
Blood. Ash. Dirt. Pieces of skin where the finger catches on rough rock.
Nothing looks like her.
Nothing looks like the moment.
There had been a sound. Music maybe. Rain. A fan running somewhere. A loud train through an open window. Her breathing.
Something ordinary. Something no one thought to keep.
Now it’s gone.
What was on the table. What shirt. What song. Was her hair was up. What she said right before she laughed.
Was she laughing?
There was light on her face.
Yes.
Keep that.
The wall has a face now.
Almost.
No.
Not a face.
Marks where a face should be.
The hand hits the stone.
Once.
Again.
Blood seeps from the knuckles.
Good.
More paint.
There was a moment here.
That much is certain.
Two people existed inside it.
That much is almost certain.
It mattered.
That is certain.
Everything else has started going.
The voice went somewhere first. Still recognizable if heard again, but impossible to make from nothing.
Then the movement.
There used to be a way she turned her head.
Gone.
A way she stood.
Gone.
Something she did with her hands when she was thinking.
Gone.
Gone.
Gone.
The wall gets another line. A shoulder. A hand. Maybe hers. Maybe not.
It doesn’t matter.
Yes it does.
The cut is dripping onto the floor now.
Waste.
Catch it.
Smear it back onto the stone.
Do not waste any of it.
There was light on her face.
There was light on her face.
There was…
The light moves.
No.
Stay here.
The fire is lower now. The wall looks different in the dark. The face is wrong again. The mouth is wrong. The eyes are wrong. There was more light than this. There had to be. Her face was warmer. Closer. Maybe the room was warmer. Maybe there was no room. Maybe the whole thing has already been changed by remembering it too many times.
No.
There was light on her face.
That happened.
Something happened here.
Look.
Look at the fucking wall.
Something happened here.
A hand presses flat against the stone. Blood pushes outward beneath the palm. Five fingers. A wrist. The rough suggestion of someone still present.
Hold it there.
Longer.
Until the stone hurts.
Until the wrist shakes.
Until the blood begins to run beneath the hand and down the wall.
Until it hurts enough that stopping feels worse.
Then pull away.
There.
Not her.
Not the room.
Not the laugh.
Not whatever was said.
Nothing close.
Just a handprint.
Maybe that has to be enough.
No.
No, it doesn’t.
The hand goes back to the wall.
