CHUPACABRA

Chapter Eleven: The Planner

Forty doesn't believe in a god, has never had a use for one, but she believes there is no other explanation for the next few weeks than she has angered some all powerful being. The world no longer feels real to her, and time is only dictated by the waning and waxing of the LED lights in her room. When she looks at other's faces there's nothing there, just an amalgamation of features and a moving mouth saying words she can't understand. She's sure Forty-Five's teeth have grown back, but she has yet to speak to the woman and avoids all contact with others. Forty doesn't want to imagine the face Forty-Five would make if she sees her.

"A haircut will do you some good."

Forty doesn't really feel the fingers combing through her matted hair. She'd refused to go to the antibacterial shower this morning because it was too close to the lab, just like she'd done the past week. Any step out of her domicile means she is to be taken to that room where either Dr. Zapata or Dr. Daas would sit and watch as she approached the cot, and they would be there afterwards tending to the wound on Thirty-Seven's neck. Forty knows she's disheveled, can smell her natural odor more than she ever has before, and her hair sticks in painful clumps to her scalp and webs around her face. She doesn't respond to Jane's comment, just shuts her eyes against the bright LEDs and hopes the woman will grow bored of her just as she had all those months ago.

"Would you like me to cut your hair?" Jane tries again, aborting her movements. Forty remains motionless.

A deep, heavy sigh. "Look. You're not eating, you're sleeping too much. I can't even slip SSRIs into your blood because you refuse to drink it. You'll die like this, Forty!"

Forty flips over on the bed, uncaring of her words. If she dies like this, so be it. At least then she would be able to stop hurting Thirty-Seven, would be able to actually promise never to hurt him again. Is life really worth living if there is nothing to it but hurting others?

Suddenly, Jane's fingers tighten harshly, pulling on a mat in Forty's hair. A shocked cry tumbles from her lips. When Jane pulls her face towards her, Forty struggles to keep eye contact, petrified by the fire in the other woman's eyes. "You don't get to die like this," Jane snarls. "You don't get to decide after all these years to just give up!"

Forty's blood is electric where Jane tugs at her hair. The immediate change between the sluggish, empty feeling she's had over the last few days and the all-consuming anger encapsulating her body makes her blood run cold for a second, then she's on her haunches and growling at Jane.

They were touching me. That's enough. I hate when they touch me.

"Hey! Whoa, Forty," Jane yelps, removing her hand quickly. Forty snaps at it as it passes by. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I'm being too rough."

"You've always been too rough!" Forty screams, snatching Jane's wrist. She grips it tightly, her claws just barely piercing the thin flesh. She thinks of all the bruises on her inner arm, all the disappointed looks and harsh words. When she looks at Jane now, she can't picture the few moments when the woman has decided to be merciful. All she sees is an enemy, a person who hates her for simply existing. "I'm not some fucking toy you can jerk around!"

Jane stares at her, mouth agape. Her hand shakes in Forty's grasp. "I—"

Forty's heart is pounding in her ears. Her veins are cold, eyes finely tuned to the sweat beading on Jane's forehead. She's so angry she can't smell properly, can't detect the copious fear hormone wafting through the air. She wants to make Jane feel as horrible as she makes Forty feel. She wants to give her enough pain in these next thirty seconds to make up for the last twenty years. "I don't want to hear you speak anymore. I'm done. I'm tired. I don't need a fucking haircut, I don't need food, just leave me here to rot like you did so long ago. Why are you just now deciding to care?" Forth throws her wrist back at her, and Jane grunts when it hits her diaphragm. Forty catches her wide eyes darting to the scars by her nose, and unbidden a wicked grin crawls across Forty's cheeks.