The Death of You

She sat on the couch, looking at her color TV and wondering when everything turned to a grayscale. The movie taunted her like a slap across the face, its subject line being something she had actually lived through and something she never again wanted to worry about. She was somewhat aware of a presence nearby, but her eyes couldn't focus on anything and she continued to stare blankly at her coffee table.

"Jesus Christ! You're in the same fucking position you were in when I left, SIX HOURS AGO!" the presence materialized into a man right in front of her.

He sat on the edge of the coffee table, held one hand on her leg and the other was moving her hair from her face. He smelled good when he leaned closer and even though around him came a cloud of cold, he warmed her up a bit.

"I'm cold." she interjected after a few minutes.

"That's because your shirt is wet, dummy. Take it off." the man continued.

His silver eyes found hers somehow and as she blinked more wet rivers found their way to her t-shirt. She looked surprised for a minute, then silently removed her shirt and happily took the one he was handing her.

"You need some sleep" he said. "When's the last time you got some shut eye."

"I don't remember."

"And food?" he asked as he tucked her in.

"I don't remember." she repeated.

"You can't keep doing this." he said finally. "It's going to be the death of you."

"Good."

And she fell asleep.