The pen sits in the palm of his hand, heavy. He stares down at it passively. A thousand thoughts are racing through his brain. Images, quotes, ideas, philosophies, reflections. People. Faces. Names. Her name. Outside, the sky is beautiful. Exquisite. Underneath the infinite galaxy of light and mystery, the city is black. Dust. There's a noise behind him, but he doesn't turn. A long, long time ago it may have struck him with either fear or an insane hope, but it doesn't matter now. If he dies before he can write anything, so be it.
The pen sits in the palm of his hand, a miracle. The idea of fate is one he's long given up on, but to find an intact pen with ink inside it was incredible. He looks outside to his left with a small motion. The scar tissue on his left eye renders him unable to see out of it, so he has to rely on the right one. Distantly, a star shoots across the horizon. A meteoroid, he reminds himself. His mother's voice plays in the back of his ravaged mind, chastising him for praying so much to the gods of word and rhyme.
The pen sits in the palm of his hand, his torn and battered hand. His hands do not mirror each other. The left is missing a thumb. Both are decorated with their own murals of scars, cuts, burns. Again her face is conjured up by his memory. Angelic thoughts coated with a film of misery. He used to think those memories were a time machine, a temporary escape. But he is not himself. He has lost that trick. The reels of his brain have decayed, the images warped and jumpy. They flee as soon as they appear. He sighs deeply. Another noise from behind him. He pays no heed.
The pen sits in the palm of his hand, and he is ready. He leans forward with a noticeable effort, and begins to write. He had been afraid that his ability to write had disappeared like his voice had, but it rushed back to him. A jolt of electricity. He writes and writes, the pen scribbling madly. Distantly he wonders if what's he saying makes any sense at all, but then he remembers there are no critics left. This is his bible. His diary. His suicide letter. His plea. His confession. It is him. He writes with a frantic, desperate energy. The letters are ugly, almost incomprehensible, yet they seem to vibrate as he pours himself into it. He is writing on documents and salvaged scraps of paper he's collected over the years, and he is afraid he will run out of room. But he doesn't. He runs out of ink. Still, though, he writes. The pen scratches along, tearing the paper and cutting into the desk as he applies pressure. He is crying. He is shouting. He doesn't know this, nor does he care. If he alerts Them, then it is so.
The pen sits in the palm of his hand, empty. He is finished. He looks down at the papers, reading her name over and over and over again. Should he pray? He decides not. God has made his absence clear. He brings the knife to his throat and his words are made red. He falls to the side, and he hears Them. The stars outside twinkle as dinner is eaten. Time falls forward, shoots across the horizon. His words remain. She lives.