I stared blankly at the ceiling, watching the gray patterns of age fade in and out of view. I was sick, that much was clear. I’d gotten better only to make a turn for the worse. My body couldn’t hold down food or water, I couldn’t stop trembling, and yet I was so hot I was drenched in sweat.
Pulling up my shirt, I looked down at my bandages, noting the dark stain seeping through from underneath. Death was coming for me, I could feel it in my bones, and yet I wasn’t scared. At least this death would be less violent and ugly than the one I had always envisioned. The one that haunted my dreams. Shivering, I pulled my shirt down and covered my belly with my hands, as if I could hide the infection away.
I lay there, trapped in a painful bubble and my thoughts veered to my mother. Remembering, as a little girl, her looking down at me, a sweet smile on her face while she tucked me into bed at night. I remembered her smell, the sweet scent of her perfume that would envelop me as she would hold me, her arms wrapped around me, comforting me when I was sick. She would sing and hum her favorite songs until I drifted off to sleep.
A tear escaped from the corner of my eye and trailed slowly down my cheek, and I buried my face in the blanket.
I hadn’t thought about her in so long, couldn’t bear the memories. But now, sick, all I could think about was her, and wishing she were here now, to hold me close, to tell me that everything was going to be okay, and hum to me one last time.
The familiar thump of metal on metal and the heavy boot steps that always followed sounded from the other room. I closed my eyes tightly, not wanting to see Eagle’s anger today. There were times that looking at him was like looking at the devil himself, staring straight at my own mortality and finding the end near. I wasn’t scared of death—only one death in particular—but neither did I want to be constantly reminded of it.
His footsteps grew louder, and I heard him muttering something beneath his breath. I kept my eyes closed, sealing myself inside the darkness, wishing he’d go back to wherever it was that he went when he left me here.
“You awake?”
I flinched when one of his large hands gripped my shoulder and roughly shook me. “Wake up,” he growled. “Sit up, I’ve got meds for you.”
Even with my eyes closed, I could sense the tension emanating from him. I wasn’t ready to see him, to look into his angry eyes.
“Sit up, or I’ll drag you up,” he snapped.
Growling under my breath, I reluctantly opened my eyes but refused to meet his gaze. My hands fumbled, finding purchase on the mattress as I attempted pushing my body into a sitting position. I winced as I moved, feeling nauseated again. My clothes—his clothes—were clinging to me, soaked through with sweat already. I hated that my stench was so strong. The stronger my natural scent was, the more likely it would be that the biters would find me. I needed my camouflage. Being clean was worse than being touched.
When I was finally sitting, half slumped on my good side, he held out his hand to reveal two large yellow pills. I eyed them nervously, making no move to take them.
“Don’t argue with me.” He pushed his hand forward. “Just take them.”
He wasn’t going to give me a choice, and I was too weak, too sick to debate it with him. Sighing, I took the pills from him, noticing for the first time how pale I was compared to him. My skin was nearly white beside his deeply tanned hand and arm.
“Water?” I asked, and he shook his head.
“Not taking my chances with your stomach.”
Frowning, I placed the pills on my tongue and tried to swallow, only to have them stick painfully to my throat, refusing to go down. Lifting a shaky hand to my face, I opened my mouth and gave the pills a gentle nudge in the right direction. I gagged repeatedly, nearly vomiting just trying to get them down. Swallowing repeatedly, I was relieved when they finally fell away.
Facing him, I opened my mouth to show him they were gone. He stared back at me with a blank look on his face. “Go to sleep,” he eventually said, and turned to leave.
Resting my head back on the mattress, I followed his large frame with my eyes as he stormed across the dim space until he’d disappeared into the other room.
The man stormed everywhere, he never simply walked. He stormed with purpose and directness, and he stormed with anger. I didn’t know why he had saved me, or why he was helping me. But neither did I want to ask. I couldn’t help but wonder if I would regret hearing the answer.
• • •
“Wake up.”
Two words—wake up—repeated on a loop until they were echoing all around me. Soft at first and then louder, obnoxiously louder, grabbing at my subconscious, slapping it awake and brutally wrenching me from sleep.
Forcing my heavy eyelids open, I found that everything was blurry, even the pair of black eyes looming over me. Belatedly I realized I was feeling even worse than I remembered.
“Open up,” the eyes said.
My focus swam until the eyes were nothing more than a blur of color. I could somewhat make out a large shadow behind them, but nothing more. I couldn’t seem to move, couldn’t latch onto anything either physical or otherwise, and before long I felt myself sliding back to sleep.
“Jesus Christ!”
The eyes were angry now, and I struggled again to keep my own open. Something touched my face, squeezing my cheeks, and then I felt something hard being pushed past my lips. I gagged, choking on the foreign lumps in my throat. My stomach twisted and pulled, and I gagged again.
I continued gagging, trying to spit, trying to gasp for air, but found I couldn’t. Something was blocking my mouth, something wasn’t going to let me breathe. My eyes widened, but the gathering tears only worsened my already blurry vision.
