Across the Water

Chapter 10

24 Hours

Nine

I wake up unable to breathe. It feels like I'm being smothered by a jellyfish. I start to panic before I realize that I am not, in fact, dying, but have just woken up with a severe nosebleed that's filled my nose and mouth, coated my face, and drenched my pillow.

I bolt upright. "FUCK!" I yell. They're such inconveniences.

Sitting upright so quickly was a mistake, because the blood rushing from my head makes the ever-present and constantly oppressive migraine slam around in my skull. I grab at the sides of my head and grit my teeth.

"FUCK!" I yell again.

Why am I so sweaty? I lift an armpit and see dark rings of sweat staining my black pajama shirt. My collar is drenched, too, and my sleeping bag feels awfully damp. I take off my shirt to replace it with a fresh one, but I gasp when I look at my shirtless body. I finally see what gave Twelve such a scare. Nobody should be this concave! How did I not notice? This isn't natural. I shiver. It would seem I woke up hot, but then why am I shivering?

"FUCK!" I shout once more, not caring about my gratuitous swearing. I'm too tired for all this. Even though I slept well, I don't feel refreshed. It feels like it could have only been minutes since we finished our long walk. I nearly give up and lay back down on my bloody pillow, but decide that's disgusting. Plus, Twelve could and would come barging in any minute, so it would be best if I cleaned up this mess as soon as possible. I've managed to keep all my nosebleeds secret, and I'm keen to keep it that way. I know Twelve made a ruckus about me hiding things from him last night, but what he failed to take into account is that telling him hurts me. All I have to offer is bad news. I already see how he looks at me. Anyway, it's awfully bold of him to get angry at me for withholding information from him when he still hasn't come to me about his migraine yet. I almost threw that fact in his face when he cornered me last night because I'm tired of being provoked, but I know he fusses over me because he cares, despite how weak it makes me feel.

I strip the now-crunchy case from the pillow and use it to attempt to staunch the flow of blood from my still-gushing nose, but the thin fabric isn't very absorbent. The blood gets all over my hands, making me look like I walked out of a horror movie, not that I've seen many.

Eventually, the bleeding stops, though I'm impressed at the volume my body has pumped from me. It's safe to say today's event beats the bathtub incident, which is a quite the feat, seeing as I had never bled more in my life before that. I use what's left of my toilet paper roll to clean myself up, though the thin material shreds off in my hands.

I ball up the soiled pillowcase and unzip one of the pocket of my backpacks, intending to tuck it out of sight. I stuff it in, but my hand comes in contact with something rectangular and hard already occupying the pocket. I fish it out.

Oh, I had forgotten. It's the bogus detonator I made months ago. I prepared it in our tubs in case we needed to bluff our way out of a dire situation, but I didn't remember until now that I moved it into my pack. I specifically designed it to look like everyone's preconceived notion of a detonator; a single cartoonishly large round button and an antenna attached to a plastic box. I slip it into my pocket. I should have been carrying this on my person much earlier.

I lay down again and curl into the fetal position, squeezing my eyes shut. I wish I had my music with me. Then I wouldn't be able to only concentrate on how horrible I'm feeling. Few things lift my mood more successfully than music. I try to distract myself by drawing in a mini notebook I have, but drawing while lying down proves difficult, even more so when my fevered shivering prevents me from holding a pencil still. I give up and resign to staring at the tent wall instead.