What am I doing. I’m suffocating is what I’m doing. I’ve passed out from my injuries and I’m unconscious right now. Loch’s fingers tighten on mine. His thumb strokes over the back of my hand and I launch stratospheric. There is nothing deniable about this. No rationalizing it off. It’s such a thing outside myself that I’m forced to sit here in excruciating mental silence and endure his hand in mine. The roughness of his palm, a callus between two fingers, probably from a paint brush.
