Paul witnesses the miracle from within and without, the reconstitution of what was lost the dim mirror of its destruction, and citric acid blossoms like fission through the tender cavities of his skull. The greyed world cuts into vivid relief, contrasts picked out so sharply they punch through his pupils into the soft tissue of the nerves behind them, bright illusory flashes shivering electric into his visual perception.
His eyes surge with saltwater as he takes a stunned, punched in gasp of a breath, and in the stead of thought-obliterating agony there is left the space for guilt to unfurl in dark, dripping fronds as he watches the performance that plays out before him. There's an intimacy to it that he almost can't stand to see, but this is the script he asked to be read. He has to see it through.
The nod he gives Lazarus after is small, the barest tilt, eyes dark and sunken in the slicking of moisture he hasn't raised hands to wipe away yet. It's enough for him, gratitude squirming in murky blue-green depths.
(And how can he be grateful to both of them? To the man who set the trap, and the man who fell into it? How long can he sustain the contradiction, and in what way will it collapse? He can't think of that, not yet, not here.)
Now all that remains is to see if God accepts this act of contrition in the spirit it was given.]
no subject
Paul witnesses the miracle from within and without, the reconstitution of what was lost the dim mirror of its destruction, and citric acid blossoms like fission through the tender cavities of his skull. The greyed world cuts into vivid relief, contrasts picked out so sharply they punch through his pupils into the soft tissue of the nerves behind them, bright illusory flashes shivering electric into his visual perception.
His eyes surge with saltwater as he takes a stunned, punched in gasp of a breath, and in the stead of thought-obliterating agony there is left the space for guilt to unfurl in dark, dripping fronds as he watches the performance that plays out before him. There's an intimacy to it that he almost can't stand to see, but this is the script he asked to be read. He has to see it through.
The nod he gives Lazarus after is small, the barest tilt, eyes dark and sunken in the slicking of moisture he hasn't raised hands to wipe away yet. It's enough for him, gratitude squirming in murky blue-green depths.
(And how can he be grateful to both of them? To the man who set the trap, and the man who fell into it? How long can he sustain the contradiction, and in what way will it collapse? He can't think of that, not yet, not here.)
Now all that remains is to see if God accepts this act of contrition in the spirit it was given.]