The sun gilds the horizon like it’s painting a line on a canvas. I stare at it – in awe, in horror. I was never meant to be here, I tell you. And you whisper in reply, I know.
Around the world there are many of us who are living out extra lives. Extra years, extra time we should not have been given. I say so even though I can really only speak for myself, because somewhere deep in my heart I want to believe that I’m not alone. I’m desperate for that feeling the same way I am desperate for you – but to this day, of those two haunted objects of my yearning, I have been granted only one.
One out of two. A half. Zero-point-five. Fifty percent.
There’s an irony hidden there, buried in the facts of my life. You may not see it, but I feel it. When I stare in the mirror it springs to life, a magical world beneath an artist’s brush, and therein lies another surprise – that artist is in fact you. Scientists discover a great many things by accident – this, I think, is the same. Whoever says creation is inherently intentional is a liar. You, of all people, now enforce my existence without ever realizing it.
This kind of bond is a fragile thing. Too often it ends up shattered into a beautiful array of bloodstains on the floor. But sometimes, when I close my eyes and see your face it occurs to me that it is not as fragile as I once thought. If I can conjure up a dead person to bring myself back to life, it surely must be one of the strongest, most powerful bonds in the world.
You open your mouth to give this new power a name – but don’t, I say. You mustn’t ruin it.