Page 85 of Burn Like An Angel

“As are you.”

“How do you know I’m not asleep?”

“Besides the fact that we’re talking?” He cracks a yawn. “Your breathing. Short and fast. Not exactly conducive to REM sleep.”

“I don’t think I like it when you spy on my body with your weird, Batman hearing.”

“Sorry.”

Moving my fingertips to his closed lids, I stroke the soft skin, following the curvature of his eyes. In the small bedroom, filledwith late afternoon sunlight filtering through net curtains, it’s easy to pretend we’re the last two humans alive.

Part of me likes the idea of Raine having no one else, no matter how fucked up that is to admit. He’d never be able to abandon me if we were the last two humans. Not like everyone else has. I’d be his sole reprieve.

Love didn’t stop my parents from dying, leaving me an orphan. It didn’t stop my uncle from keeping me at arm’s length until he cut all ties with me. And it didn’t stop Holly from following them all on a fast-track course out of my life.

“You were sleeping so peacefully,” I whisper.

“I think I was dreaming.”

My soft touches still. “Can I ask you something personal?”

“Are we still at the stage where we ask for permission?” He smiles gently.

“I guess not. Think we’ve moved past all formalities at this point.”

“So what’s the question?”

I smooth the light creases around his left eye. “Can you still see in your dreams?”

Raine runs a hand over my curled-up body. “Sometimes I see visual images. Memories from before I lost my sight. Other times it’s flashes with more sensory input like smells, textures, even tastes.”

“What does that look like?”

He thinks for a moment, his caramel eyes now open and bouncing around. “I guess… a messy, colourful patchwork quilt.”

The fact that he explains such a complicated concept with open-hearted honesty is what I admire the most. Raine has his demons, but he also has something not many can relate to.

The purest of souls.

That’s a rare commodity.

“Can I ask you something else?”

“What is this, question time?” he jokes.

“I can stop.”

“It’s fine. Lay it on me, guava girl.”

Snuggling closer, I take a deep breath of his salty, citrus scent. “Can you see me in your head?”

“I… have an impression of you.” He cups my cheek.

“How?”

“It’s made of fragments pieced together from touch. I guess I can tell you how your appearance feels to me. The image is a little more unclear, though. It’s half imagination and half my best guess.”

Equal parts confusion and curiosity draw my brows together. “So it’s not an actual image?”

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