i Lady Faye Of French’s Forest
“Eva …” Seven said, lightly touching his new love’s porcelain knee.
She had been slipping in and out of consciousness for about an hour now, leaning into his shoulder, her drool smeared across his plaid sleeve.
He delicately brushed some stray red locks from her face.
It made him nervous that she was sleeping so much, and he was glad they would soon be arriving–when she would wake again, and he could relax.
He longed for her companionship in the deepest sense. Even when she only drifted off ever so lightly, he felt more alone, and more lost.
When she was gone into the oblivion of sleep, he was more exposed to the visions, left vulnerable and helpless.
The old fears would creep back in. The black clouds would again roll overhead. He would once more grow anxious.
Faye would fall in sight, on every strand of wind and traffic, and he would hear her mad voice cackling at him:
‘Come show me your Lucky Hands, Seven … Show me your Lucky Hands!!! Ah-ha-ha-ha-ha, Ah-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha … SHOW ME … YOUR LUCKY … H-A-A-A-A-A-NDS!!! AH-HA HA HA HA! AH-HA-HA-HA-HA …!’
She would tell him she was coming for him, and that he couldn’t run for long.
She would tell him she was the only one for him, and that he couldn’t ignore the match their fate had made in hell.
She would tell him that they belonged together forever, behind the bent boughs of French’s Forest.
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