Falling Apart by Jane Lovering

inside him.
A century of supremacy. One hundred years of power, of strength and speed and unchanging looks, of sex and blood whenever and wherever I wanted, offered by those who were flattered and entranced. And now, here I sit.
His head dropped lower and he covered the newly bare back of his neck with his forearms, pulling his head in despair closer to his chest, tears threatening his closed lids.
    And then he felt it. That tug at his solar plexus, the slow spinning of the silver thread that, in his imagination, connected him to Jessica, the thread that reeled and played, slackened and tautened as he moved through her thoughts.
Jessie. Thinking of me.
He touched his flesh, just beneath his ribcage, almost wonderingly, almost as though he could feel her through the contact.
Think of me. Because without you, without knowing that you believe I am still myself after the terrible deeds I committed
 …
then I may as well turn myself over to Enforcement, or allow the Hunters to track me down and shoot me like something rabid.
    The connection vibrated and seemed to warm him along its length, but he feared that was simply his imagination.

Chapter Fourteen
    My mother was knitting again, almost feverishly, while Dad lay in bed watching
Come Dine With Me
on mute. They weren’t talking.
    â€˜Just passing by,’ I said brightly. ‘Everything all right?’
    Two pairs of tired eyes turned my way. ‘We saw the news, love,’ my mother said quietly. ‘What has he done?’
    I felt my lip wobble as though I was five again. ‘I don’t know.’
    My father patted the side of his bed and I sat down heavily enough to make one of the monitors signal an oncoming train. ‘It might not be what it looks like, Jessie. There’s something behind that kind of behaviour, I know.’ He coughed softly and then carried on. ‘In the Troubles we saw a lot of misinformation, misdirection. What you see is not always what happened, just remember that.’
    I just shook my head. The words wanted to spill out, I could feel them clogged in my throat and my lungs, but my heart wouldn’t let them past the lump in my throat.
    â€˜He loves you.’ My mother came over and stroked the top of my head as though that inner five-year-old was visible from the outside. ‘I’ve never seen anyone look at someone the way Sil looks at you.’
    â€˜I look at you like that,’ my father interjected.
    â€˜Only when you want me to make you a cup of tea.’
    I snuggled my head against the familiar scent of her shoulder and closed my eyes. Let myself imagine, briefly, that I was at home again, that this antiseptic-smelling room with the too-bright lights and the clicking machines was my bedroom in the farmhouse, that I’d suffered some stupid schoolgirl slight and that my parents, currently bickering lightly, would make everything all right for me again with a word, a glass of warm milk and a Jaffa cake. ‘He’s going to die, Mum,’ I whispered. I felt her hesitation, her hand moved over my hair and I realised that she wasn’t sure which ‘he’ I meant and was worried for both of them. It frightened me even more.
    After a few minutes of sitting there being a little girl again, I straightened up and sniffed back tears which had yet to fall. ‘Your sister and Rachel are thinking of going off on holiday in a couple of weeks,’ my father said, as though this was the family dinner table. ‘Why not see if you can go with them?’
    â€˜If you’re better, Brian; they’re only going if you’re better.’ My mother fussed his sheet straight. ‘But that’s a good idea. A holiday would be nice for you, dear. Where is it they’re going; Spain somewhere isn’t it?’
    They’re trying to make everything normal.
Pretending that life will go on. Only you know it won’t if anything happens to Sil – life might as well stop at