He couldn’t bring himself to look at her face most of the time. That was the problem. It was a problem, looking. When he looked… well, it was just worse, that is all. And when he did look he could see. He was fucked. He’s fucked, they’re fucked, we’re fucked. Everybody is fucked. This has fucked every fucking thing up. It’s a fuckup. And he is a fuckup. He’s fucked up.
So mostly he didn’t look. And the longer he went without looking the harder it was when he did look. Could it be harder? It always felt that there was no way it could be harder, yet it always was. Every day harder and harder. Then one day; suddenly, unexpectedly, it didn’t seem so hard any more.
Which is what made it worse when it did come back. Much worse. So yes, it is harder and harder. And in every brief gaze it gets worse. The brief gaze of affection. The brief gaze of pity. . The brief gaze of ridicule. The brief gaze of exasperation. The brief gaze of dismissal. The brief gare of untruth. . The brief gaze of fury. The brief gaze of hatred. The brief gaze of that face, that beautiful face.
That is why he didn’t look. Couldn’t look. The face that brought nothing but joy, relief and comfort for so long. And now he was unable to even catch look for a brief gaze. The gaze a dagger, stabbing the heart. The gaze a hideous machine, rolling ever onwards, crushing all in it’s path. The gaze a black hole, offering only despair.
Oh I know alright, I know. I’m the only rational sane fucker around who really knows.