If Don Juan had an ounce of common sense and self-preservation, Samuel thought, he would run away. Get back on opium and forget this ever happened. Instead he leaned into Samuel's hands and his eyelids fell half-closed, like he was a cat. Trusting. Samuel moved his head even closer, not sure what he was intending to do. He did not know anymore what he wanted. Maybe he wanted him. It would only be the logical consequence. He had taken so much from him tonight, had taken his life. Why not take the rest? He would manage to kill him yet. Doomed to repeat.
Better him than her, said a voice. "His name was Kazimir. He is long gone. You have his hair and face and his laugh and general," he lazily moved one of his hands to describe something he lacked the words for, before it settled against Don Juan’s face, against his jaw. "ephemera."
It was silent for a few seconds. Don Juan had finally closed the tap. The moment felt like it lacked any frame of reference. The shape of the room warped. What Samuel thought to be his life this morning was drowned in the bathwater. This morning, he had thought about the future. In his future was a tower. He went up the steps, the winding steps upwards—he cut off the image. He could not think about Themis; he would lose his mind. What was left of it. The concept of having a future eluded him, right now. His sense of time was destroyed. The past had found him, hidden in a new body, and pulled him under. The way forward was backwards. Or was it downwards? He was starting to confuse his metaphors. His body started to grow heavy and he thought about the vial in the pocket of his trousers. The downswing was coming. With the stream of hot water gone, Don Juan would cool out in his soaked clothes. There were two options left to them. "Either you get in," and we take more to stay awake, he omitted, "or I get out."
Better him than her, said a voice. "His name was Kazimir. He is long gone. You have his hair and face and his laugh and general," he lazily moved one of his hands to describe something he lacked the words for, before it settled against Don Juan’s face, against his jaw. "ephemera."
It was silent for a few seconds. Don Juan had finally closed the tap. The moment felt like it lacked any frame of reference. The shape of the room warped. What Samuel thought to be his life this morning was drowned in the bathwater. This morning, he had thought about the future. In his future was a tower. He went up the steps, the winding steps upwards—he cut off the image. He could not think about Themis; he would lose his mind. What was left of it. The concept of having a future eluded him, right now. His sense of time was destroyed. The past had found him, hidden in a new body, and pulled him under. The way forward was backwards. Or was it downwards? He was starting to confuse his metaphors. His body started to grow heavy and he thought about the vial in the pocket of his trousers. The downswing was coming. With the stream of hot water gone, Don Juan would cool out in his soaked clothes. There were two options left to them. "Either you get in," and we take more to stay awake, he omitted, "or I get out."
