From my storybook Paradox of fiction
Why not… He watched her sleep. For three hours, she hadn’t moved an inch. Part of her face was softly illuminated by the streetlight filtering through the thin curtain. Slow, steady breaths revealed the depth of her sleep. No movement. Only the faint sound of exhalation. Her inhalations were completely silent. God, she breathes so slowly… like the next exhale might never come.
He had promised to stay with her tonight. No matter how much he had always wanted to stay, no matter how inappropriate it might be. I’m not doing anything wrong, he told himself. I’m just watching over her, guarding her peaceful sleep. Surely, the presence of another person could add to the sense of calm—certainly more than an imagined presence.
The wind brushed against the windows for the first time, slightly stronger this time. Just noise. No danger. She didn’t stir. She must be so tired. Another gust. Just the front of an approaching storm. Soon, these occasional bursts would fade into a constant hum. The wind might even make the house creak. But it would be nothing more than background noise. Steady noise.
Her eyelashes fluttered ever so slightly. And… the dreams are coming. What would they be about? New ones? Or the familiar, recurring ones? Her brow shifted distinctly, a clear expression. She was talking to someone in her dream. It was almost amusing: one awake, one asleep, and in her mind, a fully functioning world. Let’s hope the wind isn’t blowing there, too.
Not that I’d be much help if the storm started wrecking things. I’m about as prepared as a Boy Scout on a school trip. In the small bag slung over my shoulder: a lighter, matches—for safety—a candle, chocolate, and a tiny metal flask of Jack. Her breathing changed, becoming audible now. Ah, yes… the delicate snoring of a girl. Sure, they don’t snore. Or fart. Or do any of the other things. Right.
The best option would be to check out the situation from the window, but he didn’t want to make a sound. You know how it goes when you’re trying not to be heard, not to spill anything, not to mess anything up… Nope, not moving. My legs are already numb as it is. Better to keep watching the small wrinkle at the bridge of her nose as her brow shifts. A shame I can’t see into her dreams. Maybe it’s better this way. She’s probably scolding me… or maybe not. Maybe she just shot me.
She looks so content, though. That expression, I know it from my own imagination—when she shot me. Like hitting a paper rose at a carnival shooting gallery. Bang, bullseye, and you win. A paper rose. A rose without scent, without thorns. And, most of all, nothing that actually resembles a flower. Maybe hemp. A bud of calm, restful sleep.
Her brow moved again. One shot wasn’t enough, huh? The next one will be for the heart or the head. She twitched. Must’ve been close range.
Bullshit. She wouldn’t even think of me, not even in her dreams. She’s probably somewhere on vacation. On a waterslide. Or building a snowman. What do I know? I’m not here to know. My job is clear: just be here. Quietly. In the monotony of the storm’s noise outside the window. No thunder, no lightning, no rain—just the wind howling through the street.
The wind spirit hummed its favorite tune along the windowpane. It’s nearly morning anyway. He closed his eyes and listened to all the sounds. A symphony. He opened his eyes again and saw her looking at him.
“Well, well… the protector has awakened. Did you sleep well? I didn’t close my eyes once,” she teased, her tone thick with mockery.
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