Children of the Dead

44| Thirteen Months

My breath catches in my throat, nearly choking me. Holloway loses the grip he had on his emotions. His face twists into an irate expression, genuine anger finally being released. He throws something at his father, it's reflexive properties make me think it's a knife. Amon lets out a low groan. His knife slices my skin as he pulls his hand down to tend to the blade sticking out from his lower abdomen.

Holloway grabs by arm and swings me behind him. I dab a hand on my neck, and pull it back to see it dripping with blood. I can feel warm drips roll over my collar bone. But I'm breathing. Amon stumbles up and rips the blade from his stomach. I notice that it's not a knife, but rather the letter opener from Holloways desk. He lets out a low, menacing laugh as his blood drips from his fingers. Holloway keeps me behind him as he analyzes the situation. Amon pulls his radio from his hip and holds it to his lips.

"Code 4357. Two escapees, west end, room 4. I repeat, Code 4357, all men report." Then he drops to the floor.

"Come on," Holloway mutters. "We need to go now."

"Where? How?" I sputter out, glancing from him to the bleeding man in front of the door.

"That way," he points to a door in the back corner of the room. I start toward it and turn to see Holloway rummaging through his desk drawers. He slips something into his pocket and we hurry through the door. I hear Holloway lock it behind us. It's a seemingly untouched bedroom on the other side of this wall. Holloway runs over to the large bay window and unlatches it. So much adrenaline is coursing through me that I nearly forget the thin slice in my neck. I hold a hand to it to try and prevent more bleeding. The front of my jumpsuit is stained burgundy.

"Come on-" Holloway says, but his words cut short. His eyes fall to my bloody hand and stained clothes. He says nothing as he turns away from the window and digs through a drawer from the desk across the room. He retrieves from it a small white box with a large red "x" printed on top of it. He motions for me to sit down on the seat below the window. Hesitantly I do. He pulls out sterile towelettes drenched in something that smells strongly of chemicals. He kneels down on one knee. One of his hands holds the towelette, the other is gentle against my cheek. The cold of the pad is quickly followed by my stifled groans and a sharp stinging sensation. Holloway says nothing as he treats the cut. He bandages it up, taking extra care not to look at my face.

"Well, you won't need stitches," he says simply as he stands.

"Good," I say, not sure how to diminish the tension between us. I want to know what he's thinking, what he's feeling. But he only pushes open the window and scans the world outside.
"We just climb out and escape into the woods?"

"Not yet," he says, with little emotion in his words.

"Okay, then what do we do?"

"We don't do anything."

"What do you mean?"

No reply.

"What's going to happen?"

Nothing. I step closer, filling my chest with air.

"Why won't you just talk to me?! I'm not the monster you are all convinced I am! I'm a person with a family and friends and all I want is to go back to them!" I snap. He turns sharply towards me, and I feel a spark of fear ignite in me. I take a small step back as he takes one towards me. But his expression isn't angry or violent. A slight expression of genuine sympathy flicks through his face.

"I don't think of you as a monster. I know who you are."

"How? How could you possibly know me?"

"I know who you are because I know who I am. We are opposites, you and I."