The Graves of Saints
“He knew it was absurd, clutching the cold, stiff fingers of a corpse as if he were offering comfort to the dead. Even the idea that he might draw some solace for himself from such contact was ridiculous. One glance at her face, perfectly painted and still as a wax figure, should have driven all such sentimentality from his heart. He had lived centuries in this world and many more in Hell, had seen death and sorrow in catastrophic proportions and watched loved ones die screaming. How could he fool himself into thinking it meant anything at all for him to sit here and bid farewell to a woman whose life had been extinguished days ago?
And yet . . .
‘I’m alive,’ he whispered, running his thumb over her knuckles, studying the lips he had once kissed and which had been sewn together by unloving hands. ‘All that time I fought so hard to hang on to something inside me that I could call “human”. And then I was human again. Alive. And I had you by my side, and despite everything, I thou...ght we could live in the world the way ordinary people do.MoreLess
And yet . . .
‘I’m alive,’ he whispered, running his thumb over her knuckles, studying the lips he had once kissed and which had been sewn together by unloving hands. ‘All that time I fought so hard to hang on to something inside me that I could call “human”. And then I was human again. Alive. And I had you by my side, and despite everything, I thou...ght we could live in the world the way ordinary people do.MoreLess
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