Martyred Soul

Chapter 15

"Wow, so you are back," Rocca comments when I walk into his mini clinic. He doesn't exclaim about my sliced hand or bruising, bleeding temple. Or what, surly, must be a hand-shaped bruise on the side of my face. I've come to him looking worse before. Especially in my training days.

Sitting on the edge of one of the beds, I begin to untie my shirt strip. "I could fix this up myself but all of my equipment is back at Blue Snow."

Rocca wheels a tray over to where I sit. "Good thing I like to do my job." He splashes alcohol onto my palm, sending me into the torrential pain again. "I guess Saraya isn't too happy with you."

That's an understatement, but at least I'm alive. "What makes you say that?"

He puts a bag of ice in my left hand, then pushes it to my cheek. Brushing my hair back, he also cleans my temple wound. "Just a scratch, but you know head wounds. They bleed like no other. Your hand, on the other hand," his lips stretch into a smile, dimples popping at his pun, "does need stitches. I'd like to tell you not to use your right hand or at least a week, but I know you never listen to me." I raise an eyebrow. Too many things to do.

As Rocca sews me up, he chats. He really isn't one to talk to many people, but for some reason he has always talked to me, ever since he first joined the Revolution. I know I should feel flattered—or something along those lines?—but I'm also not one for social interactions, and when it comes to friends, I stick to this preference. Not to say I dislike Rocca. He's an observer. Gentle and hard-working. He's reset many of my bones back into place. So I guess I express that thanks in tolerating his talk.

"I thought you might have jumped ship. At least, that was the rumor spreading around anyways."

"Well, I'm back." The ice on my face feels wonderful, but my fingers are starting to go numb.

"Did you ever think about not returning? About abandoning the Revolution?"

If only you knew.... "Of course not."

Rocca shakes his head, his soft brown hair swishing back and forth. "Wow. You're convinced this is the right path." He cuts the thread attached to my hand. "I think about leaving every day. 'Is it worth it?'"

"Be careful what you say."

"I don't think Saraya will be seeing you any time soon." Wrapping a real bandage around my hand, he asks, "You are so sure this is the right path?"

"Of course it is."

He changes the bandage on my temple. "You're good to go. Come back in tomorrow for cleaning, though."

* * *

The waking world is never quite as pleasant as it should be. Because of last night's invigorating fiasco, the wonderful miracle of food has still evaded me. Meals should never be as allusive as they are.

Hunger tremors shoot through my arms and legs as I push myself out of bed and towards the knocking door. My right hand reaches out instinctively. Bloody blades.... Saraya's bloody blade! Opening the door with my left hand, I squint down at a wide-eyed girl. Well, I look down perfectly find with my right eye, but the corner of my left eye seems to be a little swollen. Along with the rest of that side of my face.

The girl trips over her feet as she hastily backtracks, and teeters precariously back and forth before I grab her elbow to steady her. "Who sent you?" Should I smile? No, that'd only scare her more.