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My breath comes out shakily as I watch him. He looks away first and keeps his gaze down.
"Eat what is on the table," he orders, before walking deeper into the tunnel.
I look at where he had been sitting and playing with the child. There's a small wooden table beside it, with a tightly wrapped roll. I glance at the retreating dragon, and then at the table. My stomach growls and decides which I should chase.
I take a seat and unwrap the roll. It's still warm; freshly toasted. Soft pink meat peeks out from the corner. I unravel the buns and find ham inside. Actual ham.
The first bite I take is mouth-watering. I chew quickly and the bite goes down my throat dryly. I feel full already, like my stomach is occupied with something else— with guilt.
My eyes move to the direction the dragon disappeared in. What the fuck happened, and why do I feel so bad?
Although I have no appetite, I force myself to eat.
A bottle against the tunnel's wall grabs my attention. It's crystal clear and half-way full with what I assume is whiskey. It probably got lost in the skirmish yesterday.
I wrinkle the napkin and pick up the bottle. After a quick sniff test, I take a swing. My eyes tear and my throat prunes. I cough, and with a sniffle, take another sip. The whiskey makes me feel like a dragon; like I can breathe fire. I feel less cold, less afraid. If I was a weaker person, I would get lost in the liquid bravery, but I have things to do. I can't afford to get drunk.
I wet the napkin with whiskey and dab at the cuts on my wrist. The broken, outraged skin burns worse than my throat, but I enjoy it. Self-harm alleviates my guilt. I know it's not healthy, but we all need our coping mechanisms, especially in the apocalypse.
I set the bottle back where I found it, wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, and walk back to the tent.
To assure that no human will come and give me trouble, I keep an eye on the entrance. I doubt anyone is suicidal enough to approach, though. They're keeping their distance from the intimidating dragon, going as far as abandoning neighboring tents. To restore peace, we have to leave this colony.
After half an hour, no one but the dragon appears. He's back with a bleak expression, ready to continue to drag me to the end of the world.
"Time to get going," he says. "I will get supplies from—"
"No," I blurt.
When his gaze narrows, I add a "please."
"Why not?"
He seems to be back to his imposing, irritated self. Our earlier exchange has been shrugged off.
"I don't want to take anything else from them. Please. I can survive without it."
"Get up," he repeats
I pull my coat on and follow him out. Our footsteps echo through the dark, empty, filthy tunnels. The flooding becomes more apparent the deeper we go. I come to a stop and stare at the distance with discomfort. I can't get my shoes wet. Not in this cold. It'll be an easy way to lose a toe to frostbite.
