He doesn’t know how long it’s been when he passes back through the painting, but David feels a century older than when he entered Delilah’s studio. He stands there, feeling the ache in his bones and the heaviness of his skin.
Deeper, David doesn’t feel much of anything. Emotions seem muted, flickers of feelings that ignite deep in his gut but fail to properly spark, to spread to the rest of him. He feels them stir in his stomach, but die when nothing gives around it, allows it air to breathe and grow. They don’t reach his outer layers. They don’t reach his heart.
The only thing David feels right now is tired. He is exhausted, and not in a way that sleeping will cure-though he wants to do that too, curl up and sleep for maybe a year. He’s tired of being here. He’s tired of being dressed u
