She lays on her bunk at night, sleepless, the darkness pressing in around her even with the lights on. She clutches a pillow up under her chin, one cloaked in a pillowcase that she has not washed in weeks because it still carries the faint scent of his skin. She wears his Hawaiian shirts when she is alone in her bunk, a poor substitute for his body surrounding her in the night. She can feel the dread and the hatred and the guilt and the shame circling her, filtering into her soul through the cracks that she has never been able to fill, and that only he was able to defend.

-- Influx by Uncomprehending