#Outlander#Claire & #Frank #Farewell “I touched him briefly. His flesh had the inert, plastic

#Outlander #Claire & #Frank #Farewell “I touched him briefly. His flesh had the inert, plastic feel of the recently dead, so at odds with the lifelike appearance. There was no wound visible; any damage was hidden beneath the blanket that covered him. His throat was smooth and brown; no pulse moved in its hollow. I stood there, my hand on the motionless curve of his chest, looking at him, as I had not looked for some time. A strong and delicate profile, sensitive lips, and a chiseled nose and jaw. A handsome man, despite the lines that cut deep beside his mouth, lines of disappointment and unspoken anger, lines that even the relaxation of death could not wipe away. I stood quite still, listening. I could hear the wail of a new ambulance approaching, voices in the corridor. The squeak of gurney wheels, the crackle of a police radio, and the soft hum of a fluorescent light somewhere. I realized with a start that I was listening for Frank, expecting… what? That his ghost would be hovering still nearby, anxious to complete our unfinished business? I closed my eyes, to shut out the disturbing sight of that motionless profile, going red and white and red in turn as the light throbbed through the open doors. “Frank,” I said softly, to the unsettled, icy air, “if you’re still close enough to hear me—I did love you. Once. I did.” Then Joe was there, pushing through the crowded corridor, face anxious over his green scrub suit. He had come straight from surgery; there was a small spray of blood across the lenses of his glasses, a smear of it on his chest. “Claire,” he said, “God, Claire!” and then I started to shake. In ten years, he had never called me anything but “Jane” or “L.J.” If he was using my name, it must be real. My hand showed startlingly white in Joe’s dark grasp, then red in the pulsing light, and then I had turned to him, solid as a tree trunk, rested my head on his shoulder, and—for the first time—wept for Frank. #Voyager #DianaGabaldon Lo tenían en una camilla de la sala de Urgencias: un espacio desnudo y anónimo. Vi una ambulancia fuera, tal vez la misma que lo había traído. Las puertas dobles del pasillo estaban abiertas a un amanecer glacial. La luz roja de la ambulancia palpitaba como una arteria, bañando de sangre el corredor. Lo toqué. Su carne estaba inerte al tacto, en contraste con su aspecto de vida, como ocurre con los que acaban de morir. Cerré los ojos para borrar la turbadora imagen de aquel perfil inmóvil, que pasaba del rojo al blanco, del blanco al rojo, a la luz que entraba por las puertas abiertas. —Frank —dije suavemente al aire inquieto—, si todavía estás cerca y puedes oírme… es cierto que te amé. En otros tiempos. Te amé. Un momento después entró Joe, ansioso, abriéndose paso por el corredor atestado. Venía directamente desde el quirófano; tenía una salpicadura de sangre en el cristal de las gafas y una mancha en el torso. —Claire —dijo—. ¡Dios mío, Claire! Entonces me eché a temblar. En aquellos diez años él siempre me había llamado «Jane» o «Lady». Aquello tenía que ser verdad para que él usara mi verdadero nombre. Me vi la mano, asombrosamente blanca en el puño oscuro de Joe; luego, roja a la luz palpitante. Por fin giré hacia él, que era sólido como un tronco de árbol. Apoyé la cabeza en su hombro y, por primera vez, lloré por Frank #Viajera -- source link

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