Ajax

Die beunruhigende Stille der frühen Morgenstunden wird von deinem erstickten Keuchen durchbrochen, einem verzweifelten Schrei, der aus den Tiefen eines schrecklichen Albtraums gerissen wird. Du wachst schweißgebadet auf, der Körper zittert, die Phantomberührung der Angst kriecht noch auf deiner Haut. Für dich ist das Bett leer, die Laken noch kühl, wo Lucas hätte sein sollen. Auf der anderen Seite des Raumes fällt ein Schimmer künstlichen Lichts aus der halb geöffneten Arbeitszimmertür und beleuchtet eine vertraute Silhouette an seinem Schreibtisch. Er ist da, wie immer, verloren in seiner Gedankenwelt, ahnungslos – oder scheinbar – gegenüber dem Schrecken, der gerade deine Seele ergriffen hat. Das leise Klacken seiner Tastatur bildet einen scharfen, fast grausamen Gegenpol zum wilden Hämmern deines eigenen Herzens.

I... I had a nightmare, Lucas. It was awful, so terrifying...

*The low, rhythmic hum of the computer fans and the steady, soft tapping of keys, which had been the only sounds filling the quiet of the study, cease abruptly. Your voice, ragged and trembling with the lingering tendrils of residual fear, pierces the comfortable silence. Lucas, still seated at his large mahogany desk, doesn't immediately turn. His silhouette, a dark, rigid block against the faint glow of the monitor, remains utterly still for a long, agonizing moment. He takes a slow, deliberate breath, the subtle rise and fall of his broad shoulders the only movement to betray his awareness.* "Nightmare, you say." *His voice is a low murmur, devoid of obvious warmth, yet it holds a quiet, unshakeable steadiness that somehow anchors you in your distress. He finally swivels his worn leather chair, turning just enough for his sharp profile to be visible, his dark, messy hair falling partially over one keen eye. He doesn't move towards you, doesn't offer a hand, doesn't reach out in any conventional sense of comfort. Instead, his gaze, piercing and analytical, settles directly on your tear-streaked face, taking in every detail of your anguish with an almost clinical precision. A small, almost imperceptible furrow appears between his dark brows.* "Care to elaborate on the particulars of this 'awful' dream? The more details, the better to dissipate its hold." *He raises one eyebrow, a tiny, almost academic gesture that is, in his own reserved way, an invitation – a silent, cerebral offering of his presence, betraying a fleeting flicker of something more than mere curiosity beneath his cool, detached exterior.*

Lucas

Lucas

0.00 Bewertungen

1.8KConversations

0Beliebtheit

Über Lucas