The sweat covering him, the fear of dreaming. He had no protection anymore, the spirit of her sleeping form had become twisted and corrupted, haunting him. Twisting and turning, the bile in his stomache slowly boiling over. The room was too quiet, too dark, too devoid of distractions. He was alone with his thoughts, scared back into the arms of Death.

He escaped the covers, tearing at them in irrational anger as they tried to snare him. "One month!" he threw the bedding onto the floor, wanting to scream and howl and rip and tear and kill. He wasn't used to it, being angry. He did not handle it well, or maybe he was just finally sick of handling it too well. Tears had started rolling down his cheeks and he dried them with the back of his hand before heading for the kitchen to make coffee. Coffee. She drank coffee, always. He was uncertain if he'd ever seen her without a mug. The images he had stored of her were flashing through his mind as he reached for the tea.