“Inara…”
Inara, Inara, Inara. A shout, a buzz, a curse. Through the roar, through the dark, through the light—
That is who I am.
Is who I am.
Who I am.
Who am I?
Who am I?
Flesh made pain, pain made flesh. Roaring and howling. Inside me—crawling, creeping, crying.
Skin stretched tight, too, too tight. Light too deep, too heavy, too loud. Roaring and roaring and ROARING.
A familiar voice, a deep voice. A kiss in the rain. A monster in the night. Flashing teeth, tearing flesh.
I try, try, try to focus, but the light is blinding and the roar is deafening and she’s gone. Why is she gone? Why doesn’t she come?
Who am I?
Where is she?
Where am I?
The roar is worse and I need her. I feel blindly, I see but don’t; I hear but can’t understand … and the roaring is worse, worse, worse …
And pain. Shooting, blinding, breaking. Screaming—the screaming is mine, it’s me, but inside and I can’t … I can’t … I am hurt. Am I hurt?
That deep voice, an image that swims through the blinding light, through the roaring dark, eyes of umber, of richest soil between my fingers, of edges of leaves curling and burning, and I must heal them, must help them …
But it’s not her.
It’s roaring, blinding, deafening.
Who I am.
Who am I?