My coughs are useless against the cold of his palm, the pressure of his hand holding me down, muffling my hacking fit.
The taste, the bitterness…
My body fights it.
No, my body doesn’t fight the powder.
It fights him. His hand too firm on my mouth.
Itsuffocatesme.
A scream rises up through my coughing fit, and in a snap of the fingers, I’m fighting him.
I can’t breathe.
I can’t breathe.
I can’t fucking breathe!
My hand hits out, frantic, belting his arm over and over.
He doesn’t waver.
The sculpted marble of his face is unflinching, unfeeling, it is hollow and shrouded in shadows.
I strike higher, aiming for his face, but I can’t reach. My hits strike his shoulder instead—but they are slowing down already, weakening, and it’s like ribbons are being tugged from my body, my essence, and stealing away pieces of me, strip by strip.
My fingernails scrape along the slick leathers of his arm, but there’s no grip to get—and my hand slides down, then flops to the foliage.
I blink.
He warps above me.
Head tilted, he watches as consciousness ebbs out of me. Those pale eyes are sparked with interest, curiosity, and it’s all I see before I blink again, and he’s a smear of white in a blackout.
Then he’s gone.
NINE
I stir to the blinding glare of a campfire.
Just an arm’s reach from me, flames lick up the length of thick logs, burning hot enough to sear my cheeks and heat through my layers to my warm flesh.
Crisp foliage is cutting into my cheek—and by the tilted angle of the campfire, I must be on my side.
Sleep hasn’t released me.
I’m still in its grip, a grip that tightens more and more with each lazy blink at the fire.
My wrists are pinned at my chin.
The tether has re-appeared, bound and looped around my wrists, but that isn’t what gives me pause.
The grey sleeves of the sweater reach over my hands to my gloved knuckles.
I didn’t put the gloves back on, not before…
It flashes in my mind.
