Page 169 of Irreversible

My legs give out, and I collapse.

Athudresounds in my ears as the back of my head meets the stage and the distant hum of worried voices reverberates through me. My eyelids flutter, unconsciousness teasing. I’m vaguely aware of footsteps approaching, hard soles slapping against the platform as a figure bends over me.

Len?

No. Someone else.

I’m being lifted into the air.

Hauled up and carried away.

Two arms encircle me, firm and protective, one draped underneath my knees and the other cradling my back. I stagger against a hard chest as dizzying lights streak across my vision. I blink. I blink again. A face looms above me, dark hair bathed in magenta lights. I’m a sock puppet in his arms as my wig comes undone and flutters to the floor at his feet. We move, weaving through people, through outstretched arms.

“Bring her to the dressing room!”

“Call an ambulance.”

“Is she breathing?”

My head lolls, my eyes unable to focus. Soothing heartbeats pound against my temple as I nuzzle against the man’s chest, breathing him in.

Sandalwood. Smoke.

I’m placed onto a couch, my limbs soggy noodles. But my hand reaches out, latching onto the collar of a leather jacket. “No…wait…”

People clamor around me.

Dancers. Len. Queenie.

“Get her some damn water!” Queenie shouts, landing on her knees beside me.

The man.

I need the man.

He’s still here. My hand is clasped around his lapel, forcing him back to me. Keeping him close.

I try to focus, try to see his face as my breathing steadies.

An image comes into view: two dark, stormy eyes attached to a familiar face, scruff along his jawline, and brown, disheveled hair.

His hand strokes my cheek.

Just a graze. A fleeting, tender touch.

The gesture douses me in warm tingly peace as I slowly twist my head to the side and blink up at him, knowing, believing, with every tortured piece of my soul?—

“Isaac,” I breathe out.

His expression changes. He glances around, face hardening as his jaw tics and his muscles clench. He straightens, then backs away gradually, like he doesn’t want to go. His finger curls around a lock of my hair before he releases me.

I watch him retreat.

“No…” Another wave of panic threatens, clogging my throat as I try to pull myself into a sitting position. “Come back…”

I struggle against the new hands that reach out, holding me down. Then I watch, helplessly—heartbreakingly—as he turns on his heel and bolts through the open door, the image of dark-wash jeans and two black boots disappearing from my periphery.

“No.” Tears gather in my eyes as I slump back to the couch. A glass of water is pressed to my lips. I sputter and choke while emotion carves new holes in my heart.

---