The Wings Of A Caged Bird | First Draft

chapter 25: the bridgetown

As soon as I come back to my room, I take off my shirt and throw myself on the bed, utterly exhausted.

Since I was fully engrossed into the new things I was experiencing, I barely noticed how terribly hot it was inside the workshop. Because of course, there is not a single fan in there. It's only after my mind drifted away that I noticed how soaked I am with sweat, to the point my light blue shirt became dark at some parts. Right after we were done packaging everything, I excused myself and headed back home before I passed out of heat stroke.

The ceiling fan above me cools down my wet back. I roll over to let my chest and stomach get some cool air as well. I turn my face sideways and see July sitting beside the window, eyes on the pages of a thick book. It's not mine, so I assume he took it from the shelf on the wall of this room.

"What book is that?" I ask.

"A book about the history of Holocaust," he replies without looking. "Maybe Flora was studying about these."

I roll to my side, facing him. "Is it well-written?"

He shakes his head. "It's very informative but it's written in a textbook language, so I can't focus. But there's nothing else to read. I'm barely processing any words on this page."

"Ah. You noticed the white shed in front of the house?"

He nods.

"That's apparently grandpa's library. Tiara told me that there are hundreds of books in there from all over the world. Let's– umm, I will try asking grandpa, so let's go there to get some books? Tomorrow? Or maybe tonight?"

He shrugs. "Okay."

And that's where the conversation ends. All conversations between me and July are like this these days, lacking jokes and interest, lacking any flavor whatsoever, like a savoury dish cooked without salt. It's as if we're two strangers sitting on the bus terminal chatting about the dull weather while waiting for the bus to come. Not to mention how he always talks in a low and slow voice, as if letting a word out is making him expend more energy than he has.

I rest my temple on my arm as I stare at him. His back is resting against the pillow, his legs are folded, and the book is lying on his lap. Neck hunched forward, his eyes move over the words, sometimes lingers for a long time in the same part, sometimes blink repeatedly, sometimes squint. His pale skin glows dazzlingly in the strong afternoon sunshine beaming in from behind the violet curtains of the window. He is right there, just within my arm's reach. And yet it feels like I'm watching him on a 360-degree video through a screen, while he exists faraway on a completely different planet.

As I'm thinking all this, he sighs and shuts the book. "This is too painful to read," he mutters, unclear whether he means the history or the boring language. Maybe both. He starts getting off the bed, probably to get another book. I roll on to my back and fold my legs towards me to give him space.

I cross my arms under my head and stare at the cream-coloured ceiling. Then I look down at my own body lying in front. Wait, why does my bellybutton look like–

The sound of a loud yelp makes my gaze sharply turn. Heart skipping a beat, I sit up and find July on the floor, groaning and rubbing his knee.

"July?" I get off the bed and sit across from him on the floor, heart pounding rapidly against my chest. "What happened? Did you slip? Are you hurt?"

"I don't know, my legs . . ."  He lets out a whimper, his face contracted in pain. "They just . . . lost balance."

"But why . . ."

"It's okay, I'm fine." He grabs the edge of the bed and slowly props himself up. I see his legs shaking as he does. That's when I remember how last night, when he was on the way to the bathroom, he once stumbled like this, unstable on his feet. He really has been looking too weak these days, barely moving from his place, talking in a low voice, sighing too often.