35
Peter
My world is fire and pain, mixed with a gentle voice and soothing hands. The agony is unrelenting, but when that voice is near and those cool, tender fingers stroke my burning brow, I can forget it all.
I can just focus on her.
And it is her. Sara, my ptichka. I know it even in the depths of my delirium. Whatever is happening to me, she’s there, touching me, speaking to me, feeding me sips of water. Often, she’s asking me things, her melodious voice filled with desperation and pleading, but I can’t answer her, can’t do anything but turn my head toward that voice and accept the fleeting comfort offered by her touch.
She gives up after a while, her tone changing to one of resignation, and I like that more, though not as much as when she’s crooning to me, her voice as soft and g
