Alive

21

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~~~~~~⚫️Chapter 21⚫️~~~~~~
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Days passed in a strange, repetitive blur, each one leaving me feeling more detached from my old self. The camp settled into a routine, and I tried my best to blend in, to find some sense of normalcy among the group. But there were cracks, signs that I was changing in ways that scared me.

Sleep became elusive. At first, I thought it was the stress, the constant worry about what lay beyond the camp's walls. But soon, I realized it wasn't just nerves. Night after night, I lay awake, watching the shadows play across the ceiling, feeling strangely alert, as if my body no longer needed rest. When dawn broke, I felt no fatigue. Instead, there was a peculiar energy humming beneath my skin, a constant thrumming that left me restless and on edge.

Eating was another problem. I forced myself to join the others at breakfast and dinner, pretending to eat just to keep up appearances. But every time I swallowed food, nausea rose within me, and more often than not, I'd find myself stumbling to a secluded spot to retch it up. What came out wasn't normal—it was a thick, viscous black goo, like the substance I'd seen infecting others. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn't seem to keep anything down. And I began to realize, with growing dread, that my body wasn't digesting food the way it used to. It was rejecting it entirely, along with water and anything else I tried to consume.

There was a hunger, though—a dark, insistent need simmering somewhere deep inside. It wasn't for food, not in the traditional sense, but something else, something I couldn't quite name. The feeling lurked, clawing at the edges of my mind, a shadowy urge that both frightened and intrigued me. Whatever it was, I felt it growing stronger, as if it were feeding off something inside me. And the worst part was that I had no idea what to do about it.

I tried to push these fears aside, to bury them beneath routine and duty. Every morning, I'd rise with the others, going about my tasks like everyone else. Jay had left on a scouting mission a few days ago, leaving me without my one reliable companion. With him gone, I focused on helping some of the women around the camp, offering a hand wherever I could, hoping that the distraction would keep the strange changes at bay.

The women were wary at first, casting nervous glances my way as if I were something foreign, an unknown entity within their carefully guarded world. But I persisted, helping with small chores—mending clothes, fetching supplies, and gathering firewood. Eventually, they began to warm to me, treating me with the cautious respect reserved for someone who was part of the camp, yet still different.

Day by day, I fell into a rhythm. I spent mornings helping the women with the daily chores, establishing a structure for myself that felt almost normal. Sometimes, I'd even catch a faint smile or hear a bit of laughter as we worked, and I'd feel a flicker of something I hadn't felt in a long time—a sense of belonging, no matter how tenuous.

But every time I allowed myself to relax, that dark hunger would creep back, like a shadow stretching across my mind, reminding me that I wasn't like them. I tried to ignore it, to push it down, but it lingered, a quiet, insistent force that refused to be silenced.

One morning, while helping one of the older women sort through supplies, she handed me a cup of water, her face lined with concern. "You look pale, Aisha," she said gently. "Are you feeling alright?"